


Refuge in Lettenhove

by Descarada



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst and Feels, Eventual Happy Ending, First Time, Hand Jobs, I'm sensing an oral sex scene with Jaskier on a throne, M/M, Off screen death of minor but beloved book character, Oral Sex, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Seriously so much Geralt pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Descarada/pseuds/Descarada
Summary: This fic is written for tumblr artist @spielzeugkaiser‘s beautiful art. (link in notes)The prompt:“I keep thinking about a post mountain scenario with Geralt and Ciri on the run from Nilfgaard, battered and tired and somehow ending up on the court of Lettenhove, with a not unacquainted Viscount, who acts like they've never met before. (I want political subterfuge, I want Geralt placing his trust in a man whose heart he shattered, who's acting cold and detached but is so, so good inside, I'M-)”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 613
Kudos: 774





	1. With My Life and Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this art: https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/post/626622363229929472/what-is-happening-here-j-you-may-address-me
> 
> Title taken from a suggestion by @cat-clawz on tumblr.

Geralt

Geralt sat gingerly on the high backed wooden chair. He tried not to shift, because when he did, the slats pressed against fresh bruises. Ciri sat in a similar chair beside him but she was scooted to the edge closest to him. Geralt’s arm rested on the back of her chair and she huddled against his chest. He winced as he lifted his free arm to smooth down her mousy curls to keep them from tickling his face. **  
**

“I don’t want to be here.” She pleaded. “I want to go to Kaer Morhen. My destiny is to be a witcher. Can’t you take me there?”

Geralt rumbled a frustrated groan. She’d been begging to go to Kaer Morhen all week and he wanted nothing more than to snap his fingers and be there. He wished it worked that way.

“I’ve told you Ciri. We won’t make it. The King of Nilfgaard knows you're alive now. Knows you’re with me. I don’t know how he’s tracking me. Must have the aid of a sorcerer. But if we show our faces out there again we’ll both have our heads separated from our shoulders before sundown.”

She shook her head against his chest.

“No! I can run fast. I can scream. You wouldn’t believe what I can do when I get really angry.”

“Can you control it yet, girl?” He asked.

Silence.

“Well then what are we doing in this place?” Asked Ciri. She pulled her head up and sat straight, looking around. 

Ciri surveyed the dusty library. It was dim in the room. Heavy brocade curtains blocked out most of the light. A few brilliant beams flooded in through a crack in the fabric, illuminating her delicate defiant face.

There were still tear streaks down her dirty cheeks. They’d barely escaped that severe hard eyed mage that had discovered them hiding in a cave outside the city. Geralt's signs couldn’t compete with the magic of a mage. They’d gotten lucky. It was a miracle he’d only escaped with a dislocated shoulder, a hurt knee, and an ugly gash across his face.

Geralt heaved a sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you. My friend Triss is involved deeply in the war. She sent me a message, saying we’d be safe here. There’s a resistance group with the support of a young noble.”

“This doesn’t look like a very impressive court.” Sniffed Ciri. She had finished inspecting the room and had become bored with it.

“Well if it’s subterfuge it can’t very well be out in the open can it child?” Said Geralt.

“Did she at least tell you his name? My grandmama had many allies. I might know him.”

“She can’t tell me things like that in a message. It’s not safe. She just told me to come here and tell them she’d sent us.”

Geralt waited for the next question, Ciri seemed satisfied for the moment. Thank the gods.

Geralt tucked her back under his arm and kissed the top of her head.

“We’ll be safe here Ciri. I promise.”

The twisting in his gut reminded him that he had no such certainty himself. Not that he didn’t trust Triss. But politics turned on a deadly dime and people switched alliances all the time. 

A broken body and a dwindling list of options is what had brought them there. Sheer desperation. 

Geralt and Ciri both jumped when the only door to the room creaked open. Geralt needed to watch his startle response with these injuries. He winced and instinctively cradled his shoulder.

Two women slipped through the door and into the room. Geralt’s medallion vibrated.

Mages.

That was further proof this meeting was secretive. If it had been official, an official guard would have preceded this noble. Not two powerful advisors.

One sorceress was young and haughty looking and wore a crimson gown. She regarded Geralt and Ciri as if they were bedraggled feral cats who’d just dragged a dead mouse into her library.

The other sorceress wore midnight blue robes and her authoritative gaze was reminiscent of a schoolmistress.

Geralt steeled himself to rise to greet them, anticipating the pain.

The authoritative mage waved him down.

“Save it for his lordship.” 

She looked Geralt up and down, but didn’t actually greet him. He’d been around enough mages to know he was being checked for glamours and magical disguises.

Then her eyes fell on Ciri.

“Come here child.” She said to the girl. She spoke like a woman who was used to getting her way.

“Go on.” Said Geralt. “Go ahead.” And he nudged her forward. 

Ciri hesitated. 

“It won’t hurt.” Said Geralt.

She climbed off the chair and stood in front of the sorceresses matching the haughty gaze and posture of the younger one in the crimson robes. 

Geralt was reminded that Ciri was a princess and wasn’t used to being examined like a soft melon in the market.

The sorceress examining Ciri didn’t react to her jutted out chin. She just pinched it and turned the child’s head left then right.

“Interesting.” She said.

Geralt could feel Ciri’s simmering irritation. He was grateful she stayed quiet and obedient. Maybe she finally understood the danger they were in, and how badly they needed shelter here.

The sorceress examining Ciri finally looked satisfied. She turned to her young colleague.

“Go get his lordship. Tell him it’s safe. This is nothing more than an injured, exhausted witcher and a terrified little girl.”

Ciri opened her mouth to object.

“Though one with great power.” The woman finished, eyeing Ciri carefully.

She snapped her mouth closed.

The young mage left swiftly.

“I’m Tissaia de Vries, Rectoress of Aretuza.” Said the sorceress in the blue gown. “I’m visiting his lordship and helping to settle in his assigned mage. You must be Geralt and Ciri then.”

“Yes. Pleased to meet you Tissaia.” said Geralt. “Thank you for granting us refuge.” 

“Oh I haven't granted you anything, witcher. I’m only keeping his lordship safe. The viscount has a tremendous amount of power in this region, due to his keen political skills. And once he’s married to the princess, he’ll have the entire northern region under his control. And he’s the only one still willing to stand against Nilfgaard. So I’d say you’d better get off that chair and convince him when he arrives.”

Geralt shoved down his anger. Begging some noble for help was the bitterest pill to swallow. If it were just him, he’d probably go back out there and take his chances with his blade. He had to die sometime anyway.

But he was finding that there were no limits to what he would do for Ciri.

The door creaked open again and the young mage slipped through. She was followed by the last man Geralt had expected to find in this place. 

The man looked at Geralt and the witcher’s stomach bottomed out. Geralt leapt to his feet but the pain in his shoulder and his knee almost brought him crashing to the floor. Ciri was there in a flash, holding him steady.

Geralt held onto Ciri as he looked into those familiar eyes. His heart reacted before his thoughts could keep up and he was flooded with love.

Those were the eyes that had held such constant abiding love for Geralt that sometimes he’d felt he’d suffocate looking at them.

He’d sent them away in a terrified rage.

But that was then. That was when Geralt was an angry man, angry at destiny, and lashing out. Back then, the thing that most terrified Geralt was the vulnerability of trusting in honest, naked love.

But now.

Now he’d accepted his destiny. He was a father and that had changed him. Ciri had been so much more than destiny. She’d been family. She’d been love. And all of his lashing out then seemed so petty to him now.

Now nothing, absolutely nothing mattered more to him than protecting Ciri. They’d been running, hiding, starving. They’d been terrified and injured.

And now. They’d finally found someone, perhaps the only someone, Geralt knew loved him to his bones. Someone who knew how monstrous he could be and always saw him as a hero. A good man.

Finally. 

Someone Geralt could trust in this storm.

“Jaskier!” He cried. To his shock it came out as a sob. He’d been running so long. Denying his fear to be strong for Ciri. He took a few ragged breaths to steady himself.

The sorceresses gasped in offense.

“You will address him as “my Lord” shouted the younger mage.

Geralt didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t care.

He was safe. He looked desperately at Jaskier. He didn’t know what he'd been expecting. A hug? Tears of joy? 

He was met with stony silence.

Jaskier stood before him in a belted seafoam doublet and trousers with a sword strapped to his waist. He rested his hand on the hilt lazily. He regarded Geralt coldly.

A sick feeling settled into Geralt’s stomach. Why was Jaskier looking at him that way? His brain began to catch up with his heart.

Right. He’d cast Jaskier off. Rejected him. Fuck. But surely he’d forgiven him by now. Did one have to apologize to receive forgiveness though. Yes. Possibly.

Tissaia drew herself up angrily.

“This is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove.”

No it fucking wasn’t.

“No, Jaskier. I’m Geralt. It’s Geralt.”

He looked at each face in the room in confusion.

“My. Bard.” He broke off uncertain now.

“There’s no Jaskier here,” said Tissaia. “And no bards. Are you quite alright witcher?”

She drew closer and peered into his eyes. Probably checking him for a concussion.

She really didn’t know who Jaskier was. He hadn’t told them? Hadn't talked at all about Geralt? Jaskier looked at him impassively. He still hadn’t said a single word. 

Geralt knew Jaskier had a birth name. He’d spent twenty years with the man, he knew it was a nickname. He knew his birth name was———fuck. It was Julian.

But it couldn’t be. Jaskier was the powerful noble leading a secret resistance? No. 

And he was engaged? That seemed to be a less important detail so why did that realization make him feel like a horse had just trampled him?

“What’s happening here J—“

“You may address me as ‘My Lord’, witcher.” Said Jaskier swiftly. He sounded formal. 

Jaskier. No Lord Julian held out his hand.

The room was quiet. The younger sorceress still looked appalled by his outburst. Ciri was watching Geralt closely.

Given the facts before him, Geralt could come to no other conclusion.

Jaskier was Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove. Jaskier was also the only man on the continent that could save Ciri’s life. Jaskier was powerful. Jaskier was his salvation.

Geralt inhaled and though his heart felt like it was cracking, though pain shot through his shoulder and knee and his body ached, he walked closer to Jaskier and his outstretched hand.

He looked at him more closely.

The bard...no...the viscount...hadn’t aged a day. He was so fucking handsome. Geralt could admit that now. Jaskier was tall and strong. His soft brown hair curled around his face in tendrils. In fact, other than his angular cheekbones, Geralt had always thought of Jaskier’s face as soft. His pliant lips, always ready to sing a song for Geralt or laugh riotously at his terrible jokes. His full lashes that threw their own shadows on his cheeks in the setting sun. 

But now his eyes were drained of the ever present adoring expression he was used to seeing there. Without it, he hardly even seemed like the man he once knew. Why did that pain dig so much more deeply than every physical injury racking his body?

He took Jaskier’s hand. There were still small lute calluses on the tips of his fingers. He clung to that. No matter what anyone said, his bard’s fingers were in his hand after all this time. It made him want to sob. To lay his head on Jaskier’s lap. To tell him he was finally ready to be honest. 

But this was not a man ready to receive his feelings, or to comfort him.

There was nothing soft about Jaskier now.

His eyes now looked like gates snapped shut. He waited for Geralt in brittle silence. The two mages held their breath. Ciri was fidgeting with her dirty trousers.

“Geralt,” said Ciri. She took his arm and squeezed it. “Geralt are you sure? We can leave. We don’t have to do this.”

Geralt locked eyes with Jaskier as he answered Ciri. 

“No Ciri. I trust his lordship with my life and yours.”

He saw something flick across Jaskier’s eyes. It passed too quickly for Geralt to name what it was, but he knew he recognized it. 

Then Geralt bent low, pain shooting brightly through his shoulder as he did. He violently smothered the grunt of pain. He smothered everything.

But as he bent over Jaskier’s hand, he bent close enough to brush his lips over his knuckles. He felt Jaskier’s hand twitch.

“My Lord.” Said Geralt, willing the words to come out steadily. 

Geralt straightened again with equal amounts of pain. 

“I am Geralt of Rivia, and this is the Lion Cub of Cintra. We seek refuge in your capable hands.”


	2. Tell Me We Were Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is shut away in a room with Ciri to protect them until they can build disguises and be placed under cover in Jaskier's court.
> 
> He desperately wants a private meeting with his lordship. So much has changed since the mountain. He's changed since the mountain.
> 
> But not only are Jaskier's advisors hard to get through, but he learns that his past life with Jaskier has been all but erased in this castle.
> 
> He needs a plan.
> 
> \------  
> “I need a private audience with his lordship,” Geralt said. He tried to sound authoritative despite the fact he was sitting in a bed with his arm in a sling, his knee in a brace, and a child sleeping with her head in his lap.
> 
> They’d been given a big room with two beds after Ciri had bitten an attendant who tried to separate them into different rooms. “I told you,” Geralt had said. “We stay together."
> 
> Now he sat before the two powerful women who had checked him yesterday for magical malfeasance.

Geralt was suffocating in this room. He needed to get out. He needed to see Jaskier. 

The witcher knew it was foolish. 

Who was he expecting to find? The noble man in that chamber had not been not the same lovesick bard he’d left on that mountain. 

His lordship had said in a voice cool as copper “You are granted asylum, Geralt of Rivia, and Cirilla of Cintra. You will be safe within these walls.” Then he’d walked away. Geralt had watched his retreating form carefully for any sign of his friend. Jaskier had flexed his hand as he walked, the one Geralt had touched. But otherwise he walked straight and controlled. 

His very movements were incongruous with the Jaskier that lived in his memories. His Jaskier used to fidget. His Jaskier used to have a lilt in his step, as odd as that sounded. He was incapable of being still. And his eyes had always been hazel blue pools of love. Or concern. Mirth. Annoyance. Lust. But something, there was always something to be read in them. Jaskier was nothing if not a soul opened to the world, and always opened to Geralt. But not yesterday. 

Geralt couldn’t read the closed gaze of that man in that chamber. It could have contained anything behind it, even hate.

Yet as doomed as it may be, Geralt burned with a desperate desire to tell Jaskier he was sorry. He’d been a fool. A frightened, angry, fool. Jaskier was still welcome to hate him. Feel nothing for him. Gods knew Geralt probably earned that response. But he had to say he had made a mistake and he was sorry. He’d gone a lifetime of not expressing his innermost feelings, and now that he knew better, it seared his insides to contain it. 

But he wasn’t even allowed to call him Jaskier in front of these people.

Geralt held his voice steady.

“I need a private audience with his lordship,” Geralt said. He tried to sound authoritative despite the fact he was sitting in a bed with his arm in a sling, his knee in a brace, and a child sleeping with her head in his lap.

They’d been given a big room with two beds after Ciri had bitten an attendant who tried to separate them into different rooms. _“I told you,” Geralt had said. “We stay together._

Now he sat before the two powerful women who had checked him yesterday for magical malfeasance. They looked regal in the modest room, decorated only with a few vases and a painting of a noble man with his hunting dogs. Now that he thought about it, the oil painted noble was probably one of Jaskier’s fucking relatives.

Tissaia was in a high collared emerald green gown today, her hair was exactly as immaculate as it had been the day before. Sabrina (he’d since learned her name) stood a step behind her rectoress, blonde hair braided and head held high.

“I didn’t know witchers cared for politics,” said Tissaia pointedly. “According to Triss, all you desire is to hide in the mountains and let the rest of us kill each other off.”

Geralt’s broad shoulders slumped. He’d spent long evenings in Kaer Morhen explaining to Triss why war was constant and unchanging, and as such, irrelevant. 

He would love to take back those words. To eat them. After roundly dismissing her passion for the fight, he’d stepped directly into the fray and promptly required her help. 

  
“I didn’t. But now, her life depends on it.” He nodded down at the child in his lap. “It has a way of changing things.”

Sabrina took a step forward. “I am his lordship’s advisor, and you will discuss strategy and intelligence with me.” She squared her shoulders and glanced at Tissaia. “The fact that I’m a new arrival doesn’t mean I can’t be trusted to relay simple messages and advise my lord.”

Geralt rubbed his face. Of course, people didn’t just waltz right up and talk to Jaskier. That’s what advisors were for.

“It’s not about politics. It’s a personal matter.”

Tissaia snorted.

“He’s occupied,” said Tissaia. “He is running what amounts to two separate wars. Two channels of diplomacy. Two spy operations. And if he falters even for a moment, people die. If you think he has time to see to your personal comforts...well, you didn’t strike me as a person so obsessed with himself.”

Godsdamit. 

He’d done everything short of standing up and shouting,

_“I want to tell him how I feel_ _, mistress.”_

This was a dead end. He couldn’t argue with two of the only people he knew who were invested in protecting Ciri. He felt the girl shiver on his lap, so he pulled the covers higher on her shoulders.

Tissaia’s face softened a fraction.

“Maybe after the wedding he’ll have time to see you. His future queen is a brilliant strategist. I’m sure she’ll be taking a good portion of the workload from him.”

Geralt’s face snapped up and his mouth blurted out of his own accord. “I need to see him before the wedding.” 

Tissaisa’s eyebrows shot up in arch interest. 

This experience grew more and more humbling by the moment. Thankfully she didn’t say anything. Instead, Sabrina interjected again.

“You’re not in a position to make demands, witcher.”

Geralt nodded his ascent, lifting his hands in surrender.

“Well, now that we all agree on that,” said Tissaia. “Let’s get to work.”

She turned to Sabrina.

“Take a statement from him. Let him debrief you on everything he’s heard and seen. Anything that could relate to Nilfgaard. Who’s been pursuing him, who’s been feeding him information, get everything. Be thorough.” She turned again to Geralt. “You’ve rested, you’ve had your injuries treated. You’re ready to lend your assistance and earn your keep?”

“Yes of course, mistress.”

“Then,” she continued instructing the other sorceress, “figure out disguises for them.”

“Disguises?” Asked Geralt.

“You want to eventually leave this room, don’t you?” asked Tissaia.

“Yes I would.” Geralt said.

“ A white haired witcher and a green eyed child are a distinctive pair.”

“Yes,” said Sabrina, as though remembering something “His lordship says he isn’t to look anything like himself when we’re done. He was crystal clear on that.”

Geralt sagged. Neither of the women noticed. They were tending to their own business now. He was extraneous.

“And his lordship will decide on roles for them in the palace.”

“Yes ma’am.” Said Sabrina.

“Good. I have mage council business to attend to. You can manage these two, yes?”

“I am capable of handling a few refugees,” said Sabrina.

“Wait,” said Geralt. 

Tissaia clasped her hands at her waist and swiveled to look at him. “Yes, witcher?”

“Jas--his lordship hasn’t lived here for long has he? Did he just return from a long absence?”

Tissaia nodded. “Previously, he was a professor at Oxenfurt and a spy in the Redanian Secret Service for twenty years. He contributed much to Lettenhove's culture and built the political capital we’re all benefiting from today.” She sounded as though she were reciting a royal decree or letter. “Regardless, his parents are incredibly pleased to have him back. He can help so many more people this way. Perhaps he can end the war and build peace.”

She smiled and opened her hands. Geralt nodded, but his mind was slowly turning over her words, processing them as though translating them from a foreign language. Yes, Jaskier had left Geralt from time to time to teach a class at Oxenfurt. And yes he did some low level spying on the side for Redania.

But Jaskier only spied to make extra money. And he taught because he loved culture and to talk for hours with a rapt audience.

His true life had been his life with Geralt.

Right?

“And with his marriage, he’ll become a king.” Sabrina said.

_Fuck. Fucking hell._ Thought Geralt. His mutinous chest contracted so painfully when he thought about Jaskier marrying another, that he hadn’t even put it together that Jaskier would be a king. Jaskier. His slutty, feral, loving little lark a King. The witcher truly couldn’t take it all in.

Of course neither of the sorceresses in the room were privy to his inner turmoil and he needed to keep it that way. He snapped back to attention just as Sabrina interjected.

”We in the resistance are fortunate. The engagement was an unexpected blessing that will turn the tide of the war.”

Tissaia snapped her gaze to Sabrina.

“Unexpected? How so?” Asked Tissaia carefully. 

Geralt’s time with Yen had taught him what it meant when a woman used that tone. It meant that you were walking across the thin ice of a first snowfall.

Sabrina faltered. “Oh, I just. I was surprised at his engagement.”

“And why were you surprised at his lordship’s engagement?” Asked Tissaia. She tilted her head slightly.

Sabrina swallowed. “No reason, exactly. It’s just the Queen has spent the past ten years rejecting suitors, has she not? And he, I didn’t think he’d consent either. She’s an older woman isn’t she? He could have a maiden.”

Geralt snorted quietly and resisted correcting her. Jaskier didn’t really notice age. He had been in love with a century old witcher for half his life. 

Hadn’t he? 

Tissaia’s eyes flickered in annoyance and Geralt could see her temper blaze. He almost felt bad for the young mage when the rectoress turned to face her.

“She’s not older than he is,” Tissaia said, her words a harsh staccato. Then she inhaled carefully and smoothed her dress. “He just doesn’t show his age. Who knows why.” Her tone was carefully measured once again. “But it’s entirely improper for you to speculate on their personal lives. Don’t make me regret placing you here Sabrina. There were several girls fighting for the chance to stand at his side.”

Sabrina swallowed again and stepped back yet another step.

“Yes ma’am.” 

She was chastened but Geralt noticed that along with her practiced obedience was a sharpness in her eyes.

“Good. Gossip is for washer women and farmers down at the tavern. Not for mages in crucial positions of power. It indicates that you are in over your head.”

Her voice was so dismissive that Geralt almost withered himself but remembered with relief he wasn’t the one who had crossed her.

Sabrina nodded again.

“I’ll be taking my leave now.” said Tissaia.

“Thank you mistress.” Said Geralt. “Thank you for your generosity. We’ve been running for weeks and to know that the child is safe with such a powerful sorceress is a relief from a heavy burden.” 

It wouldn’t hurt to butter up the most powerful sorceress on the continent. His desperation was teaching him a few things at least. 

Sabrina cut him an acid look.

Tissaia smiled curtly, but it felt warm coming from her. “Your gratitude all belongs properly to his lordship.”

“As you say.” Said Geralt. “Please give him my thanks,” 

“He could still decide to trade you both to Nilfgaard for concessions in the war.” said Sabrina with a forced dispassionate air.

The jibe was clearly meant to throw Geralt off balance, but it didn’t.

Jaskier was not, and could never be, the kind of man who threw him and a child to the wolves. He felt it in his marrow. 

Maybe Jaskier hated him. Maybe their life together had been a mere phantom. Maybe Geralt himself was a passing, secret apparition in the life of the Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove. 

But Geralt knew what he knew. Jaskier’s beating heart could never be so cruel.

“I’ll take my chances.” He said with a serene smile.

\-----------------------

That night Geralt tried to sneak into the halls to find his way to Jaskier.

Sabrina had worked on healing his wounds, so he could physically move around. And she’d shorn his hair, so his appearance was somewhat changed. 

Since Jaskier apparently didn’t want to look at his face, they’d be building the disguise further the next day.

But he’d hoped he looked different enough to fool his guards. The capable, sharp guards by his door recognized him and sent him right back inside.

He considered casting Axii on them but he knew there was no quicker way to expose his identity. And before Sabrina had left, she’d harangued him for a good five minutes on the importance of discretion.

He did send Ciri out to try to identify the patterns of their security (he was never going to be a shining beacon of respectable fatherhood) but she’d just ended up getting into a shouting match with a guard. What a pair they were.

By the time the moon was high in the sky he was forced to admit defeat.

After they washed up and he tucked Ciri into her bed, Geralt climbed into his bed and scooted underneath the smoothest, finest sheets he had ever touched. But before his eyes could close Ciri padded over to his bed.

“Can I come up?” She asked. “I’m not sleepy.”

Geralt patted the bed next to him and she climbed up. The nightdress they’d given her was lilac with a fluttery skirt and she’d twirled in it until she’d fallen into a purple pile on the polished tiles.

“If you hadn’t napped all day you’d be able to sleep.” He admonished her gently. 

She curled up next to him.

“Sing me a song, maybe that’ll help.” She said.

“Oh, Ciri, I don’t sing.”

She snuggled closer.

“If my grandmama could sing to me, and she led whole armies in battle, you can too.”

“Hmmmmmm.” Geralt replied.

He was losing every argument he undertook today.

“Is that a yes?” Asked Ciri.

“Don’t expect a lovely voice,” he said. “And I don’t know any songs fit for lullabies.”

“Do you know ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter?’ She asked.

Geralt barked out a laugh. 

“That one is definitely not appropriate for a child.”

Memories of Jaskier in his golden costume winking at him across a crowd in Ciri’s Cintra flickered in his mind's eye.

“I don’t care. My mama sang it to me and then my grandmama.”

“Calanthe sang this song to you?” He couldn’t picture the ferocious, formidable queen singing about grabbing horns in the morn.

“She said it reminded her of better times.” Said Ciri.

Geralt had spent many hours arguing with the late Calanthe. But he couldn’t argue with that.

And if Ciri remembered Jaskier’s song, then that made it real.

They had been real.

Hadn’t they?

After Geralt sang ‘Fishmongers Daughter’, plus a few other songs entirely inappropriate for lullabies, Ciri fell asleep.

Geralt laid in bed next to her small body and stared at the ceiling. The flame of a candle clock ensconced in the wall flickered shadows across it.

There were no windows in this room, so the only sounds his powerful witcher senses could pick up were the drafts present in old castles and the occasional footsteps of the guards. That and his own ragged breath. 

Without the distraction of impending death or pleading his case with Jaskier’s advisors, the bright pain in his chest called out for attention.

Nenneke said he had to pay attention to that bright pain when it arose instead of pushing it down and hoping that it would go away.

She said it was his body’s way of communicating with him, and if he weren’t such a numbskull he’d listen to it.

But it was only telling him what he already knew. That he felt alone. Achingly, bitterly, alone. 

The child in his arms made him feel loved but still more alone, because no one in this place shared in his desperate need to care for her and keep her safe.

He was an asylee in a locked castle where at least half of the people in it would turn Ciri over to Nilfgaard in a heartbeat.

And somehow, the knowledge that the man he’d believed to be his dearest oldest friend had been living a lie, made his loneliness sink to a depth he’d never imagined.

Geralt counted breaths in and breaths out until he quieted himself. 

Just as he was drifting off to sleep he heard it.

_Scratch scratch._

Then a slide of something under the door.

Geralt sprung up to a standing position on instinct and hope. His nerves were instantly electrified. On end.

Ciri muttered but turned over and slipped back into sleep.

Geralt took slow, measured steps towards the door. The rugs muffled the sounds of his careful footfalls. He gripped the handle. As he did, his bare foot stepped on something and it rustled. 

He bent down. The dim light of the candle clock sitting on a recess in the wall illuminated a folded piece of parchment. He picked it up.

Geralt yanked open the door, but no one was there, so he closed it just as hastily.

With shaking fingers he opened the parchment and held it next to the flame.

Stamped on it in block letters in the style of woodcut type, were the words:

“At the eleventh mark. Eastern gardens.”

——-

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, @spielzeugkaiser on tumblr has posted two more pieces of art as of right now in this AU. I am going to attempt to follow their basic ideas because its fun! But, I can't promise to be 100% faithful to it because i do have a plot in my head now that I may not be able to change as more pieces are posted.
> 
> So, a few things. Last chapter I said Jaskier was engaged to a princess. But now that I have (mostly) actually come up with a plot, I've changed that to a queen.
> 
> I am very much using Ciri from the books and Tissaia from the show, so it's a mishmash.
> 
> And I don't know much at all about Sabrina, other than the teeny bit in the show (I'm like..a quarter way through Time of Contempt and she hasn't shown up yet) so hopefully you will just go with me on that characterization.
> 
> A huge thank you to Mandalynn04 and Greeneyed fan for their feedback and constant support and encouragment.


	3. A Garden in the East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt sneaks out to the garden to meet the mystery note-leaver.
> 
> \-----------
> 
> He’d been in his nightclothes when the note slid under his door, but no more. Now he was wearing black trousers, a soft black tunic, and his boots. If he was going to be creeping around a dark castle, he would do well to blend in with the shadows.
> 
> If this nearly sheer tunic with the collar that dipped low on his chest was Jaskier’s favorite, that was just a coincidence.
> 
> In the days of their friendship, whenever Geralt had put on anything that showed skin, Jaskier would lustily proclaim it his favorite. The bard had eyed him shamelessly and flirted with all the verve and enthusiasm of a young man at his first Belleteyn. Geralt secretly found his joie de vivre charming and his attentions flattering. 
> 
> But since Jaskier flirted with literally everyone, Geralt was able to lie to himself for years. To tell himself that Jaskier was just lusty as all fuck. It was just fun. It wasn’t real.
> 
> And now maybe it wasn’t either.

The chair made a scraping sound on the tile as Geralt dragged it across the room. He positioned it in front of the candle clock and sat down to wait. 

He’d been in his nightclothes when the note slid under his door, but no more. Now he was wearing black trousers, a soft black tunic, and his boots. If he was going to be creeping around a dark castle, he would do well to blend in with the shadows.

If this nearly sheer tunic with the collar that dipped low on his chest was Jaskier’s favorite, that was just a coincidence.

In the days of their friendship, whenever Geralt had put on anything that showed skin, Jaskier would lustily proclaim it _his favorite_. The bard had eyed him shamelessly and flirted with all the verve and enthusiasm of a young man at his first Belleteyn. Geralt secretly found his joie de vivre charming and his attentions flattering. 

But since Jaskier flirted with literally everyone, Geralt was able to lie to himself for years. To tell himself that Jaskier was just lusty as all fuck. It was just fun. It wasn’t real.

And now maybe it wasn’t either.

Geralt absently touched his neck and the expanse of his chest revealed by the tunic. It still felt unnatural to not have his medallion hanging there. Ever since he’d removed it, his hands would search for it in idle moments.

There were a few things missing from Geralt’s outfit in fact. He also keenly felt the absence of his two swords. 

Not many people could separate a witcher from his swords, but Tissaia de Vries had brooked no argument, and he’d had no choice. He’d been broken, clinging to his child surprise, and standing in front of a woman who could turn him into a bucket and piss in him.

She’d let him keep his medallion, as its function was chiefly defense. But she counseled him not to wear it, as it would identify him as a witcher. So he took it off and hid it inside the mattress of his bed.

He could have waited from the bed now, but the spells Sabrina had cast on him for the pain made him drowsy. And the silence of the room, with the soothing rhythm of Ciri’s heavy breathing, were likely to lull him into sleep.

He straightened his back in the chair and thumbed the note to keep his hands busy. He folded and unfolded it nervously. 

_Who had sent this fucking thing?_ He asked himself for the hundredth time. Who was he waiting to meet? Was this note from Jaskier? Or perhaps Nilfgaardian spy? 

If it was an ambush and if Geralt were taken out, Ciri would be here alone. But she would be safe. Jaskier would take care of her.

Gods let this be from Jaskier.

A voice in his head, a sensible one, said he should ignore the note. He should give it to Jaskier’s advisors in the morning and they would have evidence, perhaps evidence of subterfuge happening right under Jaskier’s nose. 

But what if it _was_ from Jaskier?

If there was even the smallest chance this note was from him, Geralt would take it.

His eyes followed each drop of hot wax sliding from the candle and splatting onto the sill. As each one dribbled away, the candle shrunk. Finally, a drop melted away and the height of the candle lined up exactly to the 11 mark. Geralt popped up as though he were spring loaded. He held the note over the flame until it crumbled to ash. Then he crossed the room to listen by the door.

  
Sure enough, within seconds he heard the guards begin to move away. A nervous energy stole over Geralt as he heard their footsteps grow faint. He cracked the door enough to peek down both sides of the hall.

  
The coast was clear.

The movement of the guards had to support the theory that the note was from Jaskier. Who else had the power to disperse them? 

Unless there was a conspiracy among the guards.

Geralt slipped out the door and prowled down the hall, senses alert. He didn’t know the exact layout of the castle but he had witcher senses. He could scent lush gardens. He could feel the barest of breezes emanating from rooms with open spaces and plants. He would find it. 

He moved stealthily. There were several times in the dark halls when he thought a servant was moving in his direction and he was forced to hide in the shadows. As he crouched up against the wall and waited, his body was coiled and ready to spring back into the hall. He had no time to lose.

If he were too late, Jaskier---he tried not to allow himself to believe it was Jaskier but the thought wouldn’t leave him-would think Geralt had declined to meet with him. He couldn’t miss this chance, as it could be his only one.

It took Geralt about thirty minutes to find a stone archway flanked by two determined looking guards in gray uniforms. There was a plaque fastened to the wall beside the guards. Burned into the plaque were the words _Eastern Garden_ in swooping calligraphy. 

From where he stood down the hall, clinging flat against the tapestried walls, Geralt could hear the larks and crickets from the garden. He could smell the fresh night breeze and the sweet scent of the flower gardens. More importantly he caught the scent of one Julian Alfred Pankratz. It reminded him of red wine, tangerines, and ballads. It made every muscle in him twitch like an athlete before the starting trumpet. Geralt wanted to run to him.

He had a decision to make.

He could push past the guards. He could axii them. Or, he could speak to them.

Violence and witcher signs would expose him. But if Jaskier wasn’t expecting him, if the note wasn’t from him, Geralt would also be exposed simply by his request.

Geralt made a quick and dirty plan. He would say he had an appointment, standing far enough away that his witcher eyes weren’t apparent. If the guards weren’t expecting him, then he would pretend to be lost. It was a terrible plan. But it was the best he could think of. His mind brimmed with the desperate need to get past them to the man in the garden. There was little room left in it for cleverness.

He stepped out of the shadows and walked directly towards the two guards.

One guard was a tall, slim woman. She had genial features covered with the mask of professionalism. The other was a short stocky man with a shaved head and beady eyes. They both wore gray uniforms and an insignia that marked them as guards of the castle.

“Halt,” barked the bald guard.

Geralt kept his distance and opened his hands in a pacifying gesture.

“May I pass? I have business--”

They crossed their weapons in his path.

Geralt made a split second decision that he would come to regret. He cast axii and the guard’s bodies went lax, their weapons dropping to their sides.

“You will allow me to pass. I have an appointment with his lordship.” Geralt said.

The guards looked dazed. Their faces were blank of emotion and thought. They both nodded their heads in agreement. 

“You have an appointment.” The tall woman said in a sing-song voice.

“His lordship,” said the bald man softly in monotone.

They stood aside quietly and Geralt passed through the stone archway and into the garden He blinked his eyes at the gleaming lanterns that hung from the rafters. They cast a soft light that still allowed for shadow and secrecy. 

Lush, rich colored blooms and their perfumed scents greeted Geralt’s senses. There were cornflower blues, lilacs, and pinks lining stone walkways, pruned to stand straight, like soldiers at the ready. Benches were scattered in alcoves, shielded from open view. In castles like this, sheltered benches worked just as well for sensitive political conversations as for lovers hiding from prying eyes. 

The air was cool but slightly humid, like a summer night. It blew lightly at his shorn hair. 

In front of Geralt, facing away from him, was the undeniable form of Jaskier. He was looking at a fountain with his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

He wore a loose silk outfit. It settled over his strong shoulders thin and fine. Geralt imagined that if he ran his fingers down it he would feel the warmth of Jaskier’s skin as though he were wearing nothing. The long jacket and trousers were both a rich teal with golden threads running along the hems. The threads caught in the lantern light and gleamed. For the second time that night Geralt was reminded of the golden costume at the banquet where Jaskier had prowled and sung and winked and imbibed.

“Jaskier!” Geralt cried out. The words burst from him unseemly. Desperate. 

Geralt could see Jaskier’s back muscles tense before he turned slowly to face Geralt. A look of shock was replaced in a flash with that strange indifference.

As Jaskier moved aside, he revealed that he wasn’t alone. There was a woman sitting on the edge of the fountain. She was slim and petite, and had been obscured by Jaskier’s wider frame. The heartbeat Geralt had assumed had been from some other guard tucked away in the garden belonged to her.

Jaskier hadn’t been staring at the fountain. He’d been speaking to his future bride.

This had been a mistake.

Geralt tried to quickly take in the woman. She wore loose ivory linen trousers and a robe that looked like nightclothes. The contrast with her dark skin was striking. Her short curly hair surrounded her face like a crown. Like a halo.

  
She was stunning.

Geralt was stunned.

A guard slammed into Geralt from behind knocking a grunt from him. On instinct, Geralt rolled into a somersault as he fell. The first part of his body that hit the stone ground was his sore shoulder and he groaned into his closed mouth. He rolled forward and sprung up in a flash. The man lunged for Geralt. The witcher’s body reacted by instinct, at the behest of decades of training and fighting. Geralt punched the man in the jaw.

The broad, hulking guard staggered backwards, and as he did, Geralt saw a gleam of a pin above the insignia on his gray uniform. 

This must be the captain of Jaskier’s guard. Geralt shouldn’t be fighting the captain of Jaskier’s guard. He was an asylee there and a secret one at that. So when the two guards from the archway rushed from their position at the entrance and shoved Geralt onto the ground again he didn’t resist.

He fell into a kneeling position and put his hands behind his neck in defeat.

The captain of the guard that Geralt had punched came to stand before him. The man rubbed his jaw and Geralt grudgingly admired his ability to take a punch. The captain looked like he had been drawn by an artist who only knew how to draw squares. He had a square jaw and a muscular square torso. He had long auburn hair pulled back into a half ponytail and piercing green eyes.

He pulled back and punched Geralt square in the face.

Well, he would have, but Geralt did manage a subtle evasive maneuver and it bounced off of the side of his head. He shouldn’t fight the guards, but it didn’t mean he should allow himself to be pummeled senseless.

The square redhead pulled back his arm again and Geralt steeled himself for a second strike.

“Baldric,” said Jaskier's voice, cutting through the air like a blade. 

Baldric froze as though Jaskier’s voice were a paralysis spell. Then he dropped his arm and whirled to bow.

  
“Yes milord?” He sounded eager. This mountain of a ginger who took a witcher punch like it was a slap, sounded like a lap dog.

Geralt shook his head to clear the minor fuzzing from the indirect blow.

“That’s quite enough.” Jaskier said sternly. “Leave him be. I will not allow violence to mar my queen’s garden visit.” He had the firm commanding voice of a man who knew he would soon be a king. Geralt idly wondered how many future kings called their guards by their first names.

“But milord, he could have killed you.” Baldric blurted out breathlessly.

“No-” Protested Geralt but was silenced by a fierce look from Jaskier.

Geralt raised his chin and once again searched his friend’s eyes for recognition. There was none there. Jaskier looked him up and down, though since he was kneeling, it was mostly down. Geralt took silent satisfaction that Jaskier’s eyes took a little longer to rake over his chest.

“No. He couldn’t have.” Jaskier said, flicking his eyes away again.

Geralt decided upon silence. It was true anyway. 

The stunning queen rose and joined Jaskier, hands clasped at her closed robes.

“Beloved.” She said, a note of tense worry in her voice. The word shot straight to Geralt's tender memories. He’d been given so many chances to call Jaskier beloved and he’d chosen not to at every turn. How would things be different now if he had? Would he be kneeling in the dirt with his arms wrenched behind him? Or would he be standing at Jaskiers' side?

The queen continued. “Who is Jaskier?”

“No one,” said Jaskier. His voice was cool as a winter breeze and his face placid.

Geralt wanted to scream. 

“Well why is he here? Seems as though a man who knows your location and would attack you in the garden should be in the stocks.”

If he were thrown in jail, it would certainly leave Ciri exposed. And this woman was suggesting just that. The Jaskier that Geralt remembered was burbling and eager around women. He loved them. He loved to please them. Maybe he was already wrapped around her finger. Maybe this was the end of his refuge here.

However, once again the man before him acted in a way alien to his memories. Jaskier ignored her suggestions completely.

“Baldric,” he said to his guard, “take this man back to his chamber. He’s on the west wing near the old maid’s block.”

The queen touched Jaskier’s arm with her delicate ring covered hand. Geralt thought he saw Jaskier flinch but maybe that was just what he wanted to see. 

“Julian, we should discuss--” the queen began.

“Beloved.” Said Jaskier. He covered her hand with his and turned to face her with a dazzling smile. 

“In one month, you will join me in making staff decisions. But for now, you may leave the tedious details of the governing of my castle to me.” He turned back to the captain of his guard, who snapped to attention. “Make sure he stays there this time.”

“Yes milord,” said Jaskier’s large ginger pet (as Geralt was now thinking of him), bobbing a bow once again. Geralt felt a guard grasp him on either side. His sore shoulder ached, but he resisted pulling himself free. He’d done enough.

In the short second it took the guards to whisk Geralt from the room, he saw the queen’s face harden into irritation.

Geralt's face burned as he was dragged away, both from the new bruises and fresh humiliation. From hurt. From anger. 

When they reached the archway and were inside the castle hallways once again, Baldric turned to the other guards.

“I’ve got this.” He jerked Geralt’s arm and pulled him towards the hall to the right towards the rooms.

Some childish part of Geralt's pride wanted to break free. To show the man that he did not in fact ‘got this’. But he buried it.

Baldric pulled Geralt down a few halls until they arrived at his room. The man growled his displeasure at the room guards, who had returned to their posts in the time it had taken Geralt to go on his little misadventure.

“Go home.” He snapped at them. “I’ll do it myself.” He grumbled something about _when you want something done right._

Geralt kept his mouth firmly shut.

Before shoving him unceremoniously back into the room, the guard took Geralt by the collar and put a finger in the witcher’s face. Geralt bristled.

“Stop giving his lordship problems.” Said Baldric. “He has enough to worry about right now. He’s an important man and people are depending on him. By the gods show some consideration.”

He sounded like he was lecturing a disappointing teenager and Geralt suddenly felt a storm of emotions. He felt abashed but angry that he felt that way.

He wanted to grab this man by the collar and tell him that the whole thing had been a misunderstanding. An accident. And that he, Geralt of Rivia, was far more important to his fucking lordship than this man would ever be. That his lordship had loved Geralt. That Geralt had saved his lordship's ass more times from monsters and kidnappings than this asshole ever would ever do standing inside gardens in castles. Just. Fuck this guy. Fuck his disappointment and his square jaw, just fuck him.

Geralt simply grumbled a hmmmm in the back of his throat and stared back with flint in his eyes.

“Also,” said Baldric. If you’re going to go running into the company of queens you should cover up.” He eyed Geralt's exposed chest.

Well. Geralt hadn’t known there was going to be a queen there, did he?

Baldric opened the door and shoved Geralt in. Before the door closed, Geralt heard him mutter...”I don’t know what so important about you anyway.”

\--------------

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo. A little more angst for you, sorry. D: (and some very subtle humor at least for me) This is going to be a little bit of a slow burn in resolving what's happening between Geralt and Jaskier. 
> 
> We need angst, drama, and subterfuge!! But I will not leave you hanging on angst I promise. I don't do sad ending.
> 
> I am currently reading Time of Contempt and have just met Sabrina. Whoops that is not how I characterized her here so far. So just imagine her as Sabrina from the show.
> 
> Baldric and the Queen (you'll learn her name next chapter) are both OC's.
> 
> As always, I'll meet you in the comments! I love connecting with people, that's why I write, so don't be shy.


	4. A Convenient Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt receives a visitor in his room. Some things are made clear. Some things are more opaque than ever.

Geralt raged. He paced and he raged he turned every fact over in his head and he raged some more.

He paced on the tiles closest to the door and he did it quietly so as not to wake Ciri. 

His questions roiled him. Who sent the note? Who set him up?

Who the fuck did this Baldric think he was?

Why did Jaskier continue to deny his own name? His own life? His friend? Former friend?

The candle clock reached the end of its wick and the pin clattered to the sill. It was late. Geralt would try to sleep.

He laid down and fell into a fitful sleep. He dreamed of the mage who’d last caught Ciri and him in his web of deadly magic. Geralt still wasn’t entirely sure how they had gotten out of that cave. And in his dream they didn’t. 

He was sobbing over Ciri’s cold body in the depths of his nightmare when he heard a click. His mind rapidly identified the click as the opening of the door to his room. The sound pulled him from his dream and into conscious reality.

This night just refused to pass without incident and fuckin intrigue didn’t it? Thought Geralt. Still, he’d never been so glad to be accosted in his sleep and pulled from a dream. He realized that hot, wet tears had been sliding from the corners of his eyes and down his temples onto the pillow.

Instead of drying them he stayed very still and listened to the door close behind the intruder. He had taken the bed closest to the door of course, so anyone who wanted to get to Ciri would have to go through him. His muscles were bunched and his nerves on end.

But quickly any thoughts of self defense were extinguished. He saw the glow of a candle in a hand. Intruders with ill intent generally didn’t carry candles around with them. He also heard a familiar heartbeat that thrummed like the rhythm of a ballad he’d heard a million times. He smelled the intoxicating wine and citrus scent. 

Jaskier.

He’d come to Geralt. 

Geralt's body relaxed back against the mattress. The nightmare that hung over him like a pall, disintegrated. 

He stayed very still though. He’d made enough stupid moves for one day. Geralt was in over his head in this castle. Jaskier should take the lead. The witcher closed his eyes again. 

He heard a chair being set next to the bed, close to where his head lay. Then he heard the soft clatter of the candle holder being set on the bedside table, and the sound of Jaskier lowering himself into the chair and crossing his legs.

“Well? I know you’re awake, Geralt.” Whispered his lordship. He sounded something like Jaskier again. “I haven’t forgotten about witcher senses.” It wasn’t his eager gregarious bard exactly. Jaskier's voice was careful like it was edging around broken glass. But it was him.

Jaskier whispering his name was like music to Geralt’s ears. But the carefulness of it reminded Geralt that he'd caused pain. Also, the anguish of arriving here and being no one to Jaskier still lodged in his chest like a bit of chicken bone stuck in his gullet.

The witcher opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling.

“So you do remember me.” Geralt said, in the same whisper, so as not to wake Ciri. His voice was husky from sleep. He tried to keep it steady. To sound less wounded than he felt. 

Jaskier snorted softly. “Of course I do, you twit of a witcher. I’m trying to protect people I care about, I’m not an amnesiac.”

There was that hint of Jaskier again. The friend who would tease him. But he was far away. 

“So. We’re still. Friends?” Asked Geralt, turning his head to see the viscount sitting with his legs crossed, lit only by candlelight, and still wearing the teal and gold from the garden. 

Jaskier raised his hands in defeat. “You’ll have to ask the temperamental witcher who sent me away.”

Geralt sat up in a flash and scrambled to the edge of the bed. He threw himself onto Jaskier, hugging him tight.

“I’m sorry.” Said Geralt, whispering heatedly into Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier tensed at first in surprise, but then put his hands on Geralt’s back in an embrace, chuckling to himself. 

“Well, witcher, you must have really had a near death experience with that mage. I’m glad you’re safe. You had me worried sick if I’m honest.” 

Jaskier uncrossed his legs, so Geralt scooted closer between them and squeezed him tighter. Jaskier’s curls tickled his nose and Geralt could feel his chest expanding and relaxing with breath. 

Then, Jaskier's hands slid down the warm bare skin of Geralt’s back. The witcher scented a crackle of lust from his friend. Geralt relaxed, inhaling it. But Jaskier tensed and jerked back. He stood up abruptly clearing his throat, leaving Geralt’s arms empty and bereft again.

“Yes. Well. Sorry about that,” Said Jaskier, patting his own legs absently like a drum. His eyes darted away around the dark room.

Jaskier understood witcher senses and knew he couldn’t hide his basic physical responses from the witcher. They both knew what Geralt had scented.

“Just. Glad you’re alive is all.” Said Jaskier. In the candlelight, his eyes shone and his fringe cast soft shadows. He nodded. “That’s all.”

“No it’s —“ Geralt tried to think of tactful words to reassure Jaskier that his lust crossed no boundaries anymore. “—fine.”

Jaskier gave him a tight smile. “Fine. Good.” He said briskly. “Anyway. I came here to ask for your help. But I’m not here and we never had this conversation.” He smoothed his silk trousers and there again was a glimpse of the fidgety bard he knew. But just a glimpse.

“Alright.” Said Geralt. The witcher scooted back against the headboard. He pulled the covers up to his waist though he was keenly aware that he was shirtless and unkempt. 

The cobwebs of sleep were beginning to recede. “Of course, anything. You’re protecting Ciri and me after all. What do you need?”

“Two things.” Said Jaskier. He was still standing. “First,” he held up a finger, “kindly stop being an utter ninny and allow me to protect you.”

Geralt's cringed slightly. He knew his actions hadn’t looked particularly sensible. 

“You axii my guards,” continued Jaskier, “which absolutely marked you as a witcher.” He launched into a tirade, picking up steam as he went. He held up a finger with each point to count Geralt’s transgressions. It was difficult to sound too angry while whispering but he was put out at the very least. “Tissaia had to whammy their memories and I still had to reassign them and pay them off. I’m still not the kind of man who can kill people to tie up his loose ends. AND you let Sasha see you before your disguise was complete—“

“Sasha—“

“My betrothed.” Jaskier said, and he dropped his arms back to his sides. He said it casually as though he didn’t expect it to be of any significance to Geralt. And considering how Geralt spoke to him when they were last friends, why would he? 

“At minimum she thinks I’m careless and weak for not locking you up for attacking me,—“

“I wasn’t attacking you.”

Jaskier held up a hand and continued without taking a breath “which is a setback and I’m just. Trying. To. Protect you, Geralt. Would you please. Just. Let me fucking protect you?” His voice sounded urgent. There was real caring in it.

“I got a note.”Geralt pleaded, by way of explanation.

“A note?” Asked Jaskier. He tilted his head.

“Yeah under the door,” explained Geralt. “It said to meet you in the garden. It wasn’t signed but I hoped it was from you. I’m sorry Jask—Julian.” He waited to see if Jaskier would correct him. Would insist he call him Jaskier. He didn’t. “I thought it was from you.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up. “A note? It wasn’t from me, I’m sorry Geralt. Where is it? Let me see.” He held out a hand.

“I burned it.” Said Geralt.

Jaskier sighed. “Well. I’ll have Sabrina take all the details from you tomorrow. We’ll get to the bottom of it. Even so Geralt. I know you and Ciri both tried to break out and wander around today. If I’m to help you, you have to stop it. Be sensible. Do as I tell you.” Jaskier’s voice was firm. 

Geralt threw back the covers and scooted off the bed. He wore only linen braies for sleeping, but Jaskier had helped him bathe many times so he didn’t worry about it. Jaskier’s eyes flew over Geralt’s body but snapped to focus on his eyes. Geralt stood and was instantly inches from his friend. Jaskier’s heartbeat thudded faster.

Geralt reached for his friend’s hands. He knew this was an intimate gesture. He and Jaskier had shared beds and baths. But there were still ways they hadn’t touched each other. And the tender cradling of hands like a lover was something they hadn’t done. But he needed to get his message across. Jaskier let him take both of his hands in his and squeeze them.

Jaskier’s eyes flicked up. The intensity of his gaze was once again an enigma.

“I will.” Said Geralt, looking determinedly into Jaskiers eyes. “And thank you. You’ve sacrificed already for me. And I was such a dick to you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jaskier looked down. “You WERE a horse's ass,” he said softly.

“I didn’t mean it.” Said Geralt. “And then I got Ciri, and became a father and...things changed. I changed. But then we were on the run—“

He stepped closer to Jaskier. Another wave of lust sparked from his friend. Jaskier flinched and gingerly slid his hands from Geralt’s. 

“Please.” He said, gesturing to the bed. “Sit.” He cleared his throat and stepped further from the bed.

Geralt sat back down, and tried to figure out what to do with his hands. He settled on folding them in his lap and staring at them.

“Look.” Sighed Jaskier. “I’m sorry too.”

“What are you sorry for?” Asked Geralt, snapping his gaze up again. “You’ve just saved my life.”

Jaskier shifted his weight and looked above Geralt’s head. “I shouldn’t have...invited you to the coast.” Said Jaskier, his voice trailing off. 

Geralt opened his mouth to protest but Jaskier trundled ahead. “I think we both know what I was truly saying, asking you to run away with me the moment you set eyes on Yen again. And that was quite possibly the biggest most moronic miscalculation of my life.”

“No. Why—“

“Please. Geralt. Don’t.” Said Jaskier.

“But—“ Geralt began.

“Don't.” Said Jaskier. “Do not humiliate me with pity. You’ve never done it before and I don’t want you to start now. It doesn’t matter anyway. That’s not me anymore.” Said Jaskier.

“It’s not?” Asked Geralt.

“No. It isn’t. I’ve left that silly bard far behind. But I still have my regrets. I regret my miscalculation because it upset you. And also...and this may sound ridiculous—“

“Try me.” Said Geralt.

“It has bedeviled me that we were never able to talk about it like adults.”

“I’m the one who wasn’t able to do that.”

“I was being diplomatic,” said Jaskier, smiling wryly. “And if I ever had the chance to talk to you again, I wanted you to know that above all else I am your friend. I wasn’t with you for so long because I wanted something else. I really am your friend, you know that, don’t you Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice broke a little on his name.

“Yes.” Said Geralt. His voice was tangled with emotions.

“Good. You can be a dick sometimes and that’s the unfortunate reality,” Jaskier smiled again, “but you’re a good man. Your whole life you’ve helped people with little to no thanks. And now you’ve gone on the run and put your life in danger to protect a child. I know you don’t like it when I say this, but you’re a hero Geralt. I’m just glad I can be useful to you for once.”

“For once?” Asked Geralt. “What do you mean?”

Jaskier chuckled mirthlessly. “Geralt. Before this, my whole world was following you around as you did good. Now I’m doing something useful myself for a change: I’m standing on my own. And it’s well past time.”

He looked so handsome in the candlelight. Wistful. But strong. 

“How did you get here?” Asked Geralt. 

“I live here.” Said Jaskier.

“You know what I mean,” said Geralt.

“Oh witcher. That’s a story for another time. For now all you need to know you aren’t being protected by a foolish bard, but by a competent leader.”

Geralt wanted to tell him that he’d loved that bard. That he had just been too much of a coward to admit it. But that would be so selfish. Jaskier said he’d left the man who loved him behind, and that he was better for it. 

Jaskier walked around Geralt's bed to where Ciri slept. He looked at the slumbering form of the child. “Sabrina briefed me but I’m still wondering.” He mused. “Why does Nilfgaard want her? Truly. Is it solely because of her claim to the Cintran throne or is it because she is a child of the elder blood?”

Geralt twisted around to look at Jaskier in surprise. “I don’t rightly know yet. And where did you hear that phrase? Child of the elder blood? How do you know?”

Jaskier waved his hand. “Tissaia told me. She’s a woman who makes it her business to know everything. She’s incredibly shrewd.”

“And do you know what that means?” Asked Geralt.

“Well it’s all a bit shadowy isn’t it? Untold magic. Unstable power. Prophecies, trances. Though no one really knows what it means for little Ciri yet, do they?”

“That about covers it.” Said Geralt.

Jaskier nodded. “I’ve asked Tissaia to stay until the wedding by the way. Makes me feel better having her counsel right now.”

“Why is that?” Asked Geralt.

“Well because it’s a viper pit around here Geralt. And someone definitely wants me dead before the wedding.”

“What! Who? Why?” Asked Geralt in alarm.

Jaskier heaved a sigh. “I’m going to need something to drink if I’m going to talk politics.”

Jaskier walked over to a cabinet on the far side of the room and began to rummage through it.

“You don’t...have to.” Said Geralt.

"Yes I do.” Said Jaskier, voice echoing in the cabinet his head was still buried in. “Because I need your help.”

Glass clinked and Jaskier emerged with a bottle of something. Once he was back in the light of the candle he looked at the bottle and grinned.

“When I was fourteen or fifteen I’d always raid the liquor cabinets in the servant quarters when my cousins came to visit. I’m surprised there’s even this swill left.”

Jaskier walked back to the bed and swatted Geralt's hip.

“Scoot.”

Geralt obediently moved over and Jaskier lowered himself onto the bed, leaning back against the bed board next to Geralt. He carefully kept some space between the two of them. Geralt wanted to move closer. He wanted nothing more than for another touch. 

Jaskier uncorked the bottle with his teeth. As he held it here, the tip of his tongue darted out to taste the liquid on it. Geralt wished for the first time in his life to be a cork.

Jaskier spit out the cork and took a drag of the bottle, coughing in the aftermath. He held it out to Geralt. The Witcher took it gratefully and swigged a mouthful of liquid. It was some kind of brandy and it burned going down his throat.

“Ok right.” Said Jaskier. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Someone took a shot at offing me last week.”

“What the fuck.” Said Geralt. Jaskier shrugged. He took the bottle back from Geralt, careful not to touch his hand as he did. He tossed his head back and took another drink. Geralt watched Jaskier’s throat swallow, transfixed by the soft glow of his skin. It was probably good Jaskier couldn’t scent it when he lusted. However, he pulled more of the blanket up to cover his lap for good measure.

“It’s just like old times really.” Said Jaskier. “There was always a cuckolded lord trying to whack my balls off. But at least they always had honor enough to scream it in my face. Now it’s all secret. Quiet. You never know who’s your friend or who has a knife in your back. And that leads me to my second favor.”

“Anything.” Said Geralt.

“Well. Despite whatever estrangement we’ve suffered as of late I know you’re an honest man and almost entirely guileless. Straightforward. No bullshit. You don’t know how much I need that right now.”

“Do you need me to keep an ear out?” Said Geralt. “Once you let me out around the castle?”

“Exactly.” Said Jaskier.

“Do you suspect who tried to kill you?” Asked Geralt.

Jaskier offered him the bottle again and he took it.

“It’s either someone who thinks I’m an ally to Nilfgaard and wants to contain their power. Or it’s someone who is aware I’m leading a resistance cell and wants to contain that power.”

“Hmmmm,” said Geralt. 

“Hmmmm indeed, my friend. Hmmmm, indeed.” Said Jaskier. “It could be anyone in other words. Which is why it’s good to have someone else I can trust. I’ll be giving you cover and protecting your child surprise. And if you hear of anything suspicious in the castle report it back to me.”

“I can do that,” said Geralt.

Jaskier turned to look at him doubtfully.

“Can you do it quietly? Subtly? From a distance? And not blow your cover?” Asked Jaskier.

“Yes,” promised Geralt. 

“Good.” Said Jaskier, seemingly satisfied. He slapped his legs. “Now. Tomorrow Sabrina will complete your disguises. Ciri will be placed as a servant girl and you in my guard.”

“I will be at your service milord.” Said Geralt with a soft smile. He could feel Jaskier’s body warm.

“Oh gods.” Said Jaskier. “Please don’t say that.” He scooted just a little further away from Geralt. “I mean yes say that out there. But kindly not when we are speaking in private.”

“Yes milord.” Said Geralt.

Jaskier stood quickly from the bed and accidentally nudged the side table, causing a clatter. “Fuck. Yes well. I’m off.”

“No, don’t go.” Said Geralt. “Please.”

“Geralt—“ said Jaskier.

“I need more intelligence if I’m going to be useful.” Said Geralt swiftly. “If I’m going to be in your guard, tell me about the assassination attempt.”

“Baldric will tell you everything tomorrow.” Said Jaskier. 

“Baldric?” Asked Geralt incredulously.

Jaskier shot him a withering gaze. “He punched you because he thought you were attacking me Geralt. Are you really going to critique someone for protecting me, a week after an attempt on my life?

“No.” Said Geralt glumly. He knew he sounded like a child having been chided for sneaking a sweet. 

“Baldric is the most loyal man in my guard.” Said Jaskier.

“Second most loyal.” Said Geralt. 

Jaskier smiled and picked up his candle.

“Good night Geralt.”

“Good night your lordship.”

“Are you going to be an asshole to Baldric?”

“No.”

“Ok then. Rest well, white wolf.”

Jaskier walked to the door. But he paused and turned before he opened it.

“Ciri may choose her own name for her serving staff identity. But I have already given Baldric your new name."

"And it is?" Asked Geralt.

“Roger Eric du Haute Bellegarde,” said Jaskier with a self satisfied smile.

Geralt groaned and leaned his head back against the headboard. “You’re never going to let me forget about that are you?”

“Hmmmm.” Said Jaskier pretending to think and giving his best impression of Geralt. “No.” He said. He grinned wide and winked at Geralt. His wink contained the spirit of the loving friend, the lusty bard, and the man Geralt loved.

Then he was gone. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. For those who don’t know, Geralt Roger Eric du Haute Bellegarde was the name that Geralt initially wanted to choose for himself but Vesemir nixed it and they settled on ‘of Rivia’
> 
> In my headcanon, one winter Jaskier visited Kaer Morhen and one night when they were all drinking and Geralt made a disparaging remark about nobles and their pretentious ways, Lambert brought it up and Jaskier thought it was AMAZING and never let him forget it.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think in the comments. It’s hard for me to tell what I’m giving away and how y’all are interpreting my different hints. 
> 
> And as always thanks for reading I love y’all and thanks @mandalynn04 and @greeneyedfan for your beta feedback.


	5. Get in Disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Ciri get their disguises, while Geralt tries to needle information about Jaskier out of Sabrina. It doesn't come across the way he intended.
> 
> \----------
> 
> He looked into the hand mirror Sabrina presented him, tilting his head different directions. Short hair. Brown eyes. It was odd. He hadn’t had either for many years.
> 
> “Smile,” said Sabrina. Geralt obliged.
> 
> The mage looked as though she were inspecting him. “Can you do anything about the...fangs?” she asked. “File them, or--”
> 
> Geralt blinked at her in surprise. “I do not have fangs,” he huffed.
> 
> “Sure you do,” she said, reaching to point at his incisors. “I didn’t even know that was a thing witchers had but—”
> 
> Geralt clamped his lips shut. “I do. not. have fangs,” he insisted. "They’re just prominent incisors."
> 
> Sabrina shrugged. “Try not to smile too enthusiastically. Though that doesn’t seem like a risk for you.”
> 
> “Hmmmm,” (*Whatever) said Geralt. 

Geralt woke feeling substantially better than when he’d fallen asleep. Which, granted, was quite a low bar. He was still powerless to protect Ciri in any way other than hiding. He still crouched in a castle beneath the protection of a man whose heart he’d broken. 

But by the gods, Jaskier remembered him and still counted him as a friend. Jaskier even still thought Geralt was a _hero_. Jaskier had lobbed that word at Geralt’s iron clad gates for years. The witcher had always brushed it away. That is, until he’d lost it. Then he’d realized how much it mended him. How much it buffeted him against the rest of the world. To hear it again had been an unspeakable comfort.

So, when Sabrina pushed into his room, arms filled with bottles, saying,“Well, you’ve gotten your wish, an audience with his lordship today,” it took substantial effort not to brag that he had already gotten an audience with his lordship, and it had been private and had involved brandy and that Jaskier still thought he was a hero.

Jaskier even still trusted him enough to give him a mission. Geralt would find the person responsible for the attempt on Jaskier’s life and he would put him down.

“It’s not private,” Sabrina said breathlessly, dropping the multicolored stoppered bottles into his bed. “He wants to brief his closest advisors and he’ll be appointing you to his guard. Which is unusual. He normally does that en masse at court. I suspect we’ll be given significant news today. We just need to get your disguises as complete as possible, since you’ll be out in the halls.”

Today Sabrina was in a sapphire crushed velvet gown with silver lace on the sleeves. Her hair was in yet another elaborate braiding pattern that almost looked like a flower.

Ciri jumped out of bed and bounced up to Sabrina, hands clasped at her back. “What color is my hair gonna be? Oh, may I have it black like Lady Yennefer’s?”

Sabrina frowned as she sifted through the pile of bottles on Geralt's bed. She grasped a small crystal bottle filled with what looked like the blackest ink. “Raven like Lady Yennefer.”

Ciri hopped and squealed. Geralt was glad to see a glimpse of girlish joy after weeks of fear and running. A smile tugged at the corners of Sabrina’s lips.

The mage pulled a bucket from a closet and sat it in the middle of the room. Ciri’s eyes widened as the mage magicked water into it. But her joy was soon tempered by a generalized crankiness when Sabrina asked her to lower her head into the water.

“Ahhhhhh, it’s cold!” she squeaked and wriggled from Sabrina’s hands, dripping water onto the floor and speckling her lavender night dress with water.

“Ciri!” exclaimed Sabrina.

Geralt subtly made the sign of Igni and steam rose from the water. Ciri saw the steam and smiled. 

“Thank you, Geralt,” said Ciri smugly. 

He nodded at her indulgently. Sabrina rolled her eyes and pointed back to the water.

“Head down, child.”

Geralt was actually glad to see that losing everything and everyone dear to her hadn’t managed to snuff out the girl’s spirit. The day she quietly and obediently did all that she was told, exactly as she was told, would be the day he worried about her ability to survive this.

She flipped her hair back over the bucket and submitted to Sabrina’s process. The mage wet her hair again, then poured the liquid and began to work it in. 

“You’re pulling!” protested Ciri, but she didn’t draw back this time. She just wiggled.

The sorceress's entire face was screwed up in concentration.

“Sit still!” Sabrina insisted. “If I spill the color onto the floor it’ll stain.”

“Can’t you just magic me a disguise?” asked Ciri. Her voice undulated with the tugs to her head.

“No. I cannot,” said Sabrina. “Spells are too obvious. Everyone will know you’re trying to hide something. It’s like a beacon screaming ‘Don’t look here!’. You’d be found out in days. It’s why we’re going to put drops in your eyes rather than enchant them.”

“But I like my eyes,” whined Ciri.

“You won’t like your eyes if you’re dead,” hissed Sabrina.

Geralt smiled to himself.

“Didn’t teach you how to wrangle strong willed princesses in Aretuza, did they?”

Sabrina scoffed but didn’t pause her work on Ciri’s hair. “His lordship doesn’t trust anyone else with you, and the price of that trust is that I am temporarily playing nursemaid. But it is still trust, and it is still an honor.”

Her enthusiastic loyalty to Jaskier was comforting but it also poked at something in Geralt again. Sabrina was leaning over the tub in her elegant, seductive dress with her ample bosom on display. 

“Tissaia did say that all the girls in your level wanted to be at his lordship’s side,” Geralt said.

Sabrina nudged Ciri’s head in a different angle and rubbed the liquid in even circles. “Yes, well, I earned it. I was top of my class.”

Geralt looked down at his hands and back up. “That’s clear. I was just wondering. Why is it such a coveted position?” He knew Jaskier’s reputation as a bard. He was said to be a generous lover and especially skilled in techniques prized by women. He wondered if his reputation had followed him to his new life.

“I think it’s because he’s handsome,” said Ciri, into the bucket. “He has the cutest eyelashes.”

Well. She wasn't wrong.

Ciri tried to raise her head, but Sabrina gently chided her. “I’m not done, girl.” Ciri obediently dropped her head forward again.

“That’s no way to think about his lordship,” said Sabrina.

Gods help Geralt, because he couldn’t help himself. 

“And he has a certain reputation, right?” He didn’t want to specify which reputation in front of Ciri. 

“Of course it's his reputation,” said Sabrina. “Women talk.”

“Hmmm,” (* _Fuck_ ) said Geralt. 

“We can’t do much to protect each other once we’re placed. So we have our own channels of knowledge, so that all of the girls at Aretuza know what to expect from which court.”

That wasn’t the answer Geralt had expected. “Protect each other?” he asked.

Sabrina nudged Ciri’s head in yet another angle and the black substance on her hands covered yet more of the mousy blonde strands.

“Obviously, witcher. Some rulers only see us as good for sexual service. Other rulers practically muzzle their mages. They don't tolerate anyone in their court having power other than themselves. Julian is different.” She glanced around the room as though to make sure Tissaia hadn’t materialized to scold her for using his first name. “Yes, he is known for being free with his sexuality, but not with us. He treats us with respect and listens to our counsel.”

“Right,” said Geralt. “Of course he does.” He felt somewhat chastened for allowing territorial feelings to drive his thoughts.

“It is wise to keep boundaries in that relationship,” said Sabrina. “Which is why, Ciri, it’s much better to admire the beauty of people other than his lordship. I think you will find many members of his guard pleasant to admire. Baldric, especially.”

Geralt rumbled deep in his chest. When Sabrina cut her eyes at him, he cleared his throat. “She’s too young to think of these things anyway.”

“I’m not thinking of anything,” said Ciri. “I’m not interested in boys at all, only in being a witcher. I just think his lordship is pretty.” 

“Well, then I’m sorry to tell you,” said Sabrina, “but you aren’t going to the meeting. You and Geralt can’t be seen together. You’ll stagger your exits from the room. Here, raise your head.”

Sabrina wrung out Ciri’s hair and twisted it into a black bun atop her head. The dark hair made her freckles and green eyes stand out even more intensely.

“It’s better for people not to see you as a pair,” the mage continued. “Ciri, you’ll wait here and someone from the household staff will fetch you.”

Ciri nodded and Sabrina wrapped a towel around the girl’s head.

“What name will you choose?” asked Sabrina.

Ciri thought for a moment then replied. “Dara.”

“Isn’t that a boy's name?” asked Sabrina.

“Not if it's my name,” said Ciri.

Sabrina thought for a moment. “Impenetrable logic. Dara it is.”

Geralt opened his arms. Ciri sprang over to him and he drew her into his lap.

“Can you be a good maid, Ciri?” asked Geralt. “Can you put your petulance away and work hard?”

Ciri sighed and slung her arms around his neck. “Of course I can. We’re hiding. It’s like being a spy. I can be careful.”

“Good. It’s an important job too. You’re a trusted member of the household. Just be careful.”

Ciri nodded again. “I’ll be careful.” 

Geralt squeezed her side. “Good,” he said.

“Very well,” said Sabrina. “Now let’s see if your guardian can follow your wise lead.” 

He realized that while Sabrina didn’t know about Jaskier’s visit to his room, she almost certainly knew about the fiasco in the East Garden. He smiled innocently.

Sabrina tried valiantly to dye Geralt’s hair but it seemed to resist all efforts. When she was done, she insisted it looked more blonde than white, but Geralt suspected she needed to tell herself that so as not to throw her bottles of dyes across the room.

The mage also dropped liquid into both of their eyes. Ciri blinked and had blue eyes. She’d wanted violet like Lady Yennefer, but Sabrina said violet eyes were too distinctive and would draw stares. The mage tried blue eyes on Geralt but his cat irises were too stark against his dark pupils, so he went dark brown, and that worked better.

He looked into the hand mirror Sabrina presented him, tilting his head different directions. Short hair. Brown eyes. It was odd. He hadn’t had either for many years.

“Smile,” said Sabrina. Geralt obliged.

The mage looked as though she were inspecting him. “Can you do anything about the...fangs?” she asked. “File them, or--”

Geralt blinked at her in surprise. “I do not have fangs,” he huffed.

“Sure you do,” she said, reaching to point at his incisors. “I didn’t even know that was a thing witchers had but—”

Geralt clamped his lips shut. “I do. not. have fangs,” he insisted. "They’re just prominent incisors."

Sabrina shrugged. “Try not to smile too enthusiastically. Though that doesn’t seem like a risk for you.”

“Hmmmm,” said Geralt. 

\--------

Soon they were outside the room. Geralt had hugged Ciri tightly before they separated. It had been difficult to leave her. He wasn’t used to her being out of his sight anymore, even for a moment. But Sabrina was right. They were being hunted as a duo, and it would ring fewer bells if they weren’t seen together.

As they left the servants’ quarters, the halls gradually became wider and tapestries began to appear on the walls. Geralt hadn’t been outside the room in the daytime in a few days, and he carefully took in his surroundings. If he would be entrusted with security, the better he knew the place the better he would be at his job. He was surprised at what he saw.

Many old castles like this with old noble families had stuffy decor, with oil paintings of long dead patriarchs and glinting gold touches everywhere. But this castle seemed decorated to make one feel as though they were outside. There were plants, open areas with cobblestone, and breezes blew through. They passed a fountain, and he could hear the birds in the Eastern garden as he passed it. There was music coming from several of the rooms. 

As he walked, he tried to strike up a conversation with Sabrina.

“So, I hear music. Does his lordship have any musical training?”

He quickly found himself pressed against a wall in a corner with a petite mage whispering into his face heatedly.

“You can stop attempting to pump me for information about his lordship. I’m not stupid.”

Geralt stuttered and looked nervously into her blue eyes.

“I don’t know what you think, enchantress, but—"

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of the child,” she continued in an angry staccato whisper, “but I have my eye on you, witcher. You show up here days after someone tries to assassinate the one man holding the resistance together, with a child Nilfgaard desperately wants. Then last night Baldric said you ran out into the garden trying to attack his lordship-"

“I did NOT—“ Geralt hissed.

“And now you keep trying to extract information from me like I’m some idiot. Or disloyal.”

“No, Sabrina. I don’t think that about y—“

“Just leave it, witcher. Leave it.” She turned on her heel and continued down the corridor. Geralt hustled to keep up, but desisted from any further attempts at conversation.

Soon they stood in front of a polished cherry oak door with a golden bird insignia on a plaque beside it. It was the same insignia that Baldric wore as a pin on his uniform. Geralt idly wondered if he would get one. Probably not. He wasn’t the head of the guard.

His heart began to pick up tempo. He steeled himself to see Jaskier again in public. He imagined his friend looking at him again as though he was a stranger. He would tolerate it this time. He wouldn’t react with emotion. He wouldn’t blurt anything out. It would be _his lordship_. Jaskier was trusting him, and he wouldn’t fuck this up.

“In here,” said Sabrina. She opened the door and slipped in. Geralt drew a deep breath and followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was more of a domestic chapter I suppose. Geralt being a dad. Geralt pining. Ciri getting her disguise. More plot next chapter, which is already written and with beta.
> 
> Thank you to my betas, who I've shouted out in the notes, but just pointing out the addition of @lovelyrita1967, who did copyediting. So if my punctuation and grammar have suddenly improved, it is thanks to her. She writes funny, charming Geraskier romcoms so check out her profile.


	6. A Promotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt attends his first meeting. He takes advantage of an awkward moment to improve his position in the castle.
> 
> \----
> 
> “My lord—“ said Baldric, glancing nervously at Geralt.
> 
> Jaskier raised his hand to silence him, his rings gleaming.
> 
> “That is our first order of business. Geralt of Rivia and his child surprise Princess Cirilla of Cintra. As you know, I attempt to keep my spy identity separate. I still have people in the field that could be exposed or suspected of espionage if it were to become common knowledge. It will inevitably merge but I’d like to keep that at bay as long as possible.” He nodded. “However.”
> 
> He looked at Geralt and a smile played at the corner of his lips.
> 
> “Since my dear friend, the white wolf, has shouted my spy identity across the castle—“
> 
> Geralt pursed his lips and looked around the table. His mortification at shouting Jaskier’s name warred with his pride at being revealed to be a friend, and a dear one at that.
> 
> “—I must bring the three of you into my confidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my darlings. I know, two updates in two days! For some reason this one is just flowing. *knocks wood
> 
> Let me know what you think. I'll meet you in the comments as usual.
> 
> Thanks for reading. xoxo

Geralt slipped into the room behind Sabrina. It was mostly bare other than a long heavy table in the center, surrounded by elegantly carved chairs. The walls were lined in maroon leather and tapestries. 

It was a functional room. Maps and papers were neatly arranged on the long table and lamps lined a side table along the wall likely used for projecting plans against the smooth leather. Geralt imagined that strategy sessions took place in a room like this.

Upon entering, Geralt saw that Tissaia was already present and standing against the wall to the right. 

He followed Sabrina’s lead and stood alongside the two sorceresses. Tissaia nodded curtly at them.

“His lordship is on his way,” she said, and continued to look ahead, hands clasped at her cinched waist.

Geralt waited on edge for the door behind him to open. But it was a door on the other side of the room that opened instead. There was a hidden entrance in the wall panels that Geralt hadn’t even noticed.

First Baldric came through. Geralt had only seen him at night before. In daylight his freckles were more prominent, scattered across his face as well as his body, which was as cut as a diamond. His curly red hair was neatly pulled back into a bun. He surveyed the room with a routine professionalism, his eyes falling on every corner and scanning every face. He paused momentarily on Geralt but didn’t acknowledge him. Then he looked back through the door, gesturing for someone else to enter.

Jaskier entered the room and what felt like a host of butterflies trembled in Geralt’s stomach. It was again the face of his dearest friend. Last night he’d looked soft in the candlelight, but today he was royal in a satin green doublet with a darker green cape fastened around his neck with his gold insignia. On his soft brown curls lay a thin circlet of gold.

Geralt had never cared much for nobility, but seeing Jaskier look so regal affected him deeply. This was the way he _should_ have seen Jaskier, back when he’d had the chance. 

Jaskier looked to each of his advisors with a nod. Geralt braced himself for coldness, but when Jaskier looked at the witcher, his expression warmed by degrees. It wasn’t his Jaskier, exactly. He looked more serious. More powerful. There was a tinge of sadness. But there was real recognition in his eyes.

“Please sit,” said Jaskier. Baldric and Geralt sat on one side of the table, and Tissaia and Sabrina on the other. Geralt was to Baldric’s right, so he was one chair away from the head where Jaskier would sit.

As they sat, Jaskier removed his cape and circlet with a sigh and hung them on a hook. Geralt was rather sorry to see the circlet go. It provoked a desire in him. A desire to fall to his knees. That was… fucking new. Geralt generally had to force himself to perform even the most perfunctory of bows to nobility. But Jaskier had spent years adoring Geralt. Now Geralt wanted to adore him back. And some kinds of adoring were better done on your knees.

“Thank the gods that’s over,” Jaskier said, running his finger along his collar, loosening it, and revealing dark chest hair.

He sat at the end of the table and straightened his doublet.

“I don’t mind the pomp and circumstance but sometimes you just need to breathe, don’t you?”

Jaskier's advisors murmured their agreement. Geralt didn’t murmur anything, but when the murmuring trailed off, he worried that he should’ve. 

“No one breathed a word about this meeting, right?” asked Jaskier.

His advisors all shook their heads solemnly. Geralt shook his head too. He hadn’t told anyone either.

“Good. This meeting is restricted to my closest advisors. We should have a few moments at least.”

“My lord—" said Baldric, glancing nervously at Geralt.

Jaskier raised his hand to silence him, his rings gleaming.

“That is our first order of business. Geralt of Rivia and his child surprise Princess Cirilla of Cintra. As you all know, I am making the utmost effort to keep my previous life and identities separate from my life here. I still have people in the field that could be exposed or suspected of espionage. It will inevitably happen but I’d like to keep that at bay as long as possible.” He nodded. “However...”

He looked at Geralt and a smile played at the corner of his lips.

“Since my dear friend, the white wolf, has shouted my spy identity across the castle—“

Geralt pursed his lips and looked around the table. His mortification at shouting Jaskier’s name warred with his pride at being revealed to be a friend, and a dear one at that.

“—I must bring the three of you into my confidence. Geralt of Rivia and Cirilla of Cintra are being pursued by Nilfgaard and are therefore under our protection. That you know. But they are also dear to me personally.” Jaskier knocked the table softly, almost absently.

Geralt pursed his lips tighter and studied the table.

“So you will defend them, their identities, and their wellbeing as though they were members of my family. Anyone who betrays Geralt or Ciri will be treated as though they have betrayed me personally, as well as the resistance.”

“Yes, your lordship,” murmured all three of his advisors in turn.

“And you will forget for now that you have heard the name Jaskier. I hope I am clear.”

He locked eyes with Sabrina, then Tissaia, then Baldric. They all nodded. Sabrina snuck a glance at Geralt as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle. Tissaia revealed nothing, as usual. Geralt wouldn’t want to play her in Gwent. 

“Very well. Little Ciri will be in housekeeping and I hereby--” Jaskier made a flourish with his hand, “--appoint Geralt to my guard. From the moment we leave this room he will be Roger Eric du Haute Bellegarde.”

“Eric is fine,” said Geralt. He saw a ghost of a smile on Jaskier’s lips again. Geralt wasn’t sure what had possessed him to choose Roger as a second name. Oh, the vagaries of youth. But Jaskier teasing him so, only warmed his heart.

“Ciri has chosen the name Dara to use in the household,” said Sabrina.

“Very good,” said Jaskier. 

“They have their disguises,” said Sabrina, “And I have instructed them not to be seen together. They will leave their rooms in a staggered pattern.”

“That sounds sensible,” said Jaskier. 

“About that,” said Baldric. “Your lordship, may I?” He sounded deeply concerned.

“Yes of course, Baldric,” said Jaskier warmly.

“To keep your identity safe and Geralt and Ciri anonymous, perhaps we should discuss any personal visits you make to their quarters.” Baldric didn’t sound accusatory. He almost sounded apologetic. 

Geralt resisted mightily responding that Baldric shouldn’t worry about any personal visits to his quarters from Jaskier. But the witcher knew he was right.

“If you are seen again making night time visits...” 

Geralt saw Sabrina’s eyebrow quirk. Tissaia again was like steel. 

“Yes. Good man. Sensible,” said Jaskier, cutting him off.

 _He’s only doing his job. He’s only doing his job,_ Geralt reminded himself.

Jaskier moved on quickly, speaking faster now. “Now. There are two questions that vex me at the moment and the faster we answer them, the more likely we are to all stay alive. First, Baldric, any progress on finding my would be assassin?”

He spoke so calmly about his attempted murder. 

“Minimal progress, your lordship,” said Baldric. “So far no one in the kitchens can identify how the poison was put in the food or how it got by the tasters.”

“I’ll help with that,” said Tissaia. “I can visit the kitchens today. Submit a list of who you want me to read.”

“Good,” said Jaskier. 

Geralt knew that many sorceresses had mind reading capabilities. He’d learned that from his time with Yennefer. During that time, he’d also learned how to identify and resist it. Thankfully, Tissaia had made no effort to mindread Geralt beyond their initial meeting. And even then, she’d done nothing more than confirm his identity.

“Now, I very much want to know why the King of Nilfgaard is so obsessively pursuing Ciri. He’s already conquered Cintra. Why is he so focused on a child with a tenuous claim to the throne at best? And if he knows she is a child of the elder blood, what does he think he can do with that power? I have my spy networks but perhaps you can also tap into your mage council friends.”

“I can do that,” said Sabrina.

“Good, good—“ 

Just then, the door clicked open. Geralt twisted around to see who would enter. No one else turned, which was odd. Had they been expecting another person?

In walked a slim man, white, with a mustache and slick, trimmed goatee. He wore a long belted coat that fell almost to his boots. He smiled indulgently at all present. 

“Oh my,” he said. “I’m embarrassed to have missed the invitation to this important meeting.” He raised his hands in an apologetic gesture, though there was nothing sincere in his tone. The acidity of his tone could bore through stone.

“Not at all, Peter,” said Jaskier smoothly. “Please, be seated.”

The man named Peter looked around the table. When he saw that the seats next to Jaskier were occupied, Geralt expected him to sit on his right or next to Sabrina. Instead, the man walked to the end furthest from Jaskier. He took a chair, and began dragging it loudly across the floor. It screeched as he dragged it down the line, past Sabrina, and past Tissaia, until setting the chair between Jaskier and Tissaia. Again, Tissaia didn’t twitch a muscle, and neither did Jaskier. They were clearly all playing a game opaque to Geralt.

Peter settled into his spot next to Jaskier and sat back, crossing his legs.

“Now, what were we discussing?” asked Peter. He smiled again, solicitous.

“Since you’re here now,” said Jaskier, “please give us any reports from Blaviken, or intelligence from your network.”

“Ah, I’m so glad you asked, your Lordship,” said Peter. “I’ve just come from a meeting with the master of coin for Nilfgaard. They are increasing their reward for the child Ciri and the witcher Geralt of Rivia. They’re doubling it.”

Geralt tremored upon hearing his and Ciri’s name, but managed to control all but a slight twitch of his lips. Thankfully Peter was not looking at him. He had the sudden urge to excuse himself. To flee from the room. But there was no point in that. He didn’t know this man. He’d only draw attention to himself.

Jaskier raised his eyebrows. “Doubling it? For a child? That strikes me as odd. Doesn’t that strike you as odd, Peter?”

Peter shrugged. “Nilfgaardian motivations are none of my concern, milord. I’m not the head of the Redanian Secret Service,” he nodded at Jaskier, “just the humble coin counter.”

Jaskier sat back and crossed his arms. 

“Handing a fleeing child over to a foreign government isn’t your concern, Peter? Have we fallen so low that we no longer care about children?”

Peter only smiled more magnanimously. He had a dizzying number of smiles. “Your lordship, Nilfgaard is still our ally, though some in the murderous resistance seems to forget that. And they assure me they would never harm the girl. She’s wanted alive.”

Geralt’s mind worked through each new fact as it was presented. If Ciri were really wanted alive, then she must be wanted for her powers. If Nilfgaard wanted to prevent her taking the throne, they’d just kill her.

“And the witcher?” asked Jaskier. Geralt stilled. His hands clutched each other under the table on his lap. He counted his heartbeats to keep them steady.

Peter laughed and it sounded like dry thorns.

“Why would anyone care what Nilfgaard did with a mutant who probably kidnapped the girl in the first place? Milord, I’m afraid your concerns are misplaced.”

Jaskier tilted his head and asked caustically, “Please inform me where my concerns should lie, Peter.”

“As you wish, milord,” said Peter, as though there had been no notes of warning in Jaskier’s voice. “You should focus on being the first to turn the fugitives into Nilfgaard. Nilfgaardian agents last spotted them fleeing into the caves south of the city. These caves are within range of Lettenhove, Oxenfurt, and Novigrad. One of those cities will be expected to produce them sooner rather than later or suffer the consequences. And I suggest it be you.”

“Why should it be me?” Jaskier asked.

“Other than the money? Well, your Redanian Secret Service is second to none in reputation, milord. And how long is it taking them to find one child, and one bedraggled mutant with white hair and yellow eyes?”

Geralt forced himself not to twitch, not to move.

“If you take much longer,” Peter continued, “the gossip will no longer be that you have lost your edge. It will be that you have resistance fighters in your ranks. So take my advice. Find them first, and find them quickly. Or your tenuous position of power could be obliterated.”

Jaskier rubbed his chin. Tissaia finally opened her mouth to speak but Peter was quicker. He waved his hands across the table. “I don’t want to step on the toes of your able advisors. They are renowned for their cunning, of course. But--” His eyes caught on Geralt. “Actually, wait. I don’t think I know you, sir. Who, pray tell, are you?”

Geralt managed not to freeze. He’d faced down basilisks, ghouls, drowners, you name it. He wouldn’t lose his nerve because of this prick. 

“Peter, meet Eric,” said Jaskier. “I’m appointing him to my guard today.”

Geralt nodded but didn’t smile.

“How interesting,” said Peter. “A low level staff appointment is usually done at court. It doesn’t normally warrant a personal meeting, involving only your closest advisors.”

“Oh, Peter,” said Jaskier, and he leaned forward. His smile took on a predatory quality, and Geralt knew that look. It was the look his friend got when anyone insulted or threatened Geralt. The witcher instinctively thought to deescalate the situation and looked around to make sure no knives were anywhere in reach of Jaskier. “Have I told you how charming I find it when you opine on how I run matters of my personal staff?” 

Those were the words Jaskier said, but they sounded more like a threat.

“Ohhhh, he can’t be low level,” said Peter, looking directly at Jaskier. “Or he wouldn’t be here.”

Geralt cleared his throat and both of the men looked at him.

“I’m high level enough to get one of those pins,” said Geralt and he leaned forward, peering over at Baldric and the bag he had strapped to his chest.

Jaskier’s eyes twinkled and he nodded at Baldric.

Baldric grimaced and pulled out a pin and slid it over to him.

Geralt pinned it on his tunic and then folded his arm, nodding at Peter. 

“I’m second in command of his lordship’s guard. And I reckon that makes me high ranked enough to be here with you lovely people.”

“Indeed it does,” said Jaskier, a hint of mirth in his voice. “Indeed it does.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt just wanted a pin, damnit. If Baldric gets one, so should he. 
> 
> Also, Geralt had a..hmm...an interesting reaction to seeing Jaskier in his formal circlet. I WONDER if we'll see that pay off later at all.
> 
> Also, I'm sneaking in some GoT references. Some more obvious, some less.


	7. Thank You Milord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt learns a bit more about Jaskier's betrothed. He gets his uniform and his first assignment. He also finds out what pushed Jaskier to become who he is now, a leader in a resistance, and major player in a war.  
> \----  
> “Do you trust your betrothed? Your queen?” Geralt forced the words out. ‘Betrothed’ was particularly acidic on his tongue. Baldric grimaced slightly, as though Geralt had passed gas or committed some other faux pas. But Jaskier only shrugged.
> 
> “Honestly, Geralt, I don’t trust anyone. Present company excepted, of course. And as far as Sasha, I don’t even know yet why she agreed to marry me.”
> 
> Geralt frowned. “What do you mean? Of course she’d want to marry you.”
> 
> Baldric nodded in agreement. Jaskier rolled his eyes and looked at Geralt pointedly.
> 
> “My dear friend,” said Jaskier. “Shocking though it may be, not everyone I desire considers me the best option in romantic partners. A shocking fact that I reluctantly came to accept, after much melodramatic suffering and wandering the continent drunk and stinking.” He flipped his fringe out of his face and one corner of his mouth quirked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Welcome back my loves! 
> 
> Content warning:
> 
> There are references in this chapter to the past death of a minor character. This character was not in the show, but book readers will know her. I do not know if she's in the games. I don't think she is. I haven't played enough of the games to know.
> 
> That being said, read on if you choose.

“That will be all,” said Jaskier.

Geralt held in his sigh of relief. 

The passive aggression on display at this meeting had made the facts difficult to follow. Peter obviously favored full Redanian support for Nilfgaard’s forays into the north. Beyond that, Geralt hadn’t learned much.

However, watching Jaskier toss elegantly disguised barbs across the table for the past hour had been the closest Geralt had gotten to seeing the old Jaskier since he and Ciri had arrived at his door. At least it was the closest he’d seen Julian come to Jaskier in front of his advisors. Geralt was grateful for any scrap that reassured him that his friend was still in there.

The small peek Geralt had seen the previous night in his room had been addictive. He wanted more. But he couldn’t claim that this version of Jaskier wasn’t fascinating in its own way.

“My betrothed is meeting me for lunch,” said Jaskier, drumming his fingers on the table. “And you don’t keep a lady waiting.”

_Betrothed._

This wasn’t getting any easier. 

“Of course, Your Lordship,” said Tissaia.

“Yes, of course,” said Peter. “Give your queen my regards.”

They all stood, practically as one, like soldiers.

“Ladies first,” said Peter. He dipped his head low in Tissaia and Sabrina’s direction, and swept his arm towards the door.

Tissaid nodded with a tight lipped smile. She departed with her usual air of grace and decorum. Sabrina followed closely. Geralt could hear them bustling quietly away down the hall. Peter followed Sabrina to the doorway. But just when Geralt thought the room would be rid of him, and the antsy, distrustful energy he engendered, the man stopped and turned.

“Your Lordship,” said Peter. “One more request.”

“Yes?” asked Jaskier. He looked up, blue eyes as closed as Geralt had ever seen them. But even like this, even cold and closed, he was beautiful.

“My meeting with the Nilfgaardian economic attache was a success, but I had to offer him an appearance with you at court tomorrow. You don’t mind, of course, that’s what court is for.”

“Of course not,” said Jaskier, light glinting from his white teeth. “I will welcome him to my court. So long as he passes muster with Tissaia and Sabrina before entering the hall.”

“Very good,” said Peter. He nodded, smirked, and was gone.

“Your Lordship,” said Baldric. He still hovered alongside his chair. “May I ask a question?”

Only the three of them were left in the room, at the head of a table built for twenty.

“Go ahead,” said Jaskier. He still sounded brisk but the edge of contempt was gone. He looked at Baldric with a small but encouraging smile.

Baldric lowered his voice and leaned forward against the back of the chair. Geralt noticed the ropey muscles in his arms contract. The guard uniforms here were a little...showy.

“One more person heard your name. The name you told us to forget.”

Geralt glanced awkwardly at the door. He didn’t know whether he was supposed to go or stay. But since he was second in command of Jaskier’s security force now, he supposed it was fine to listen to anything Baldric asked. If they wanted him to leave, they’d say so. Anyway, he knew all too well who had heard Jaskier’s name in the garden while he was busy getting pummeled. And for once he was grateful to Baldric. He wanted to know more about this queen too.

Jaskier scooted his chair back and slid his hands against his crossed legs. His trousers were pulled skin tight in that position. His long slim fingers were covered in the same rings Geralt remembered. Jaskier absently rubbed his hands down his own thigh and cupped his knee. 

Geralt’s eyes followed the movements. Once again he pictured kneeling there, rubbing his own hands up and down Jaskier’s thighs. Now that he’d admitted to himself how he felt, now that he’d cracked himself open, it was like a flood he couldn’t stem.

“You let me deal with that, Baldric. Don’t worry yourself,” Jaskier said.

“Do you trust your betrothed? Your queen?” Geralt forced the words out. ‘Betrothed’ was particularly acidic on his tongue. Jaskier and Baldric turned to look at him. Baldric grimaced slightly, as though Geralt had passed gas or committed some other faux pas. But Jaskier only shrugged.

“Honestly, Geralt, I don’t trust anyone. Present company excepted, of course. And as far as Sasha, I don’t even know yet why she agreed to marry me.”

Geralt frowned. “What do you mean? Of course she’d want to marry you.”

Baldric nodded in agreement. Jaskier rolled his eyes and looked at Geralt pointedly.

“My dear friend,” said Jaskier. “Shocking though it may be, not everyone I desire considers me the best option in romantic partners. A shocking fact that I reluctantly came to accept, after much melodramatic suffering and wandering the continent drunk and stinking.” He flipped his fringe out of his face and one corner of his mouth quirked. 

Baldric shook his head slowly, aghast. The man was so transparent. Geralt imagined his thoughts went something like “What kind of monster would do that to His Lordship?”

Geralt inwardly cringed.

“And believe it or not, I don’t think she’s charmed by my good looks, style, charm, talent, et cetera,” continued Jaskier. “Queens make matches for the good of their countries. And what I bring to the table is menial.”

“What do you mean?” asked Geralt. “You’re a noble.” Geralt remained willfully ignorant to these kinds of hierarchies.

Jaskier scoffed. “I’m a viscount. It is a title that means little on its own. Gets you a nice allowance. Gets you invited to parties. There’s no real power inherent in it. It’s like life.” He gestured broadly and poetically. “It’s what you make of it. And I’ve made quite a lot of it. But still. It can’t compare to a prince or a king.” Jaskier shrugged. “But that is my riddle to solve. And perhaps I’ll find a way to charm her eventually.”

Geralt had no doubt Jaskier was up to that task. 

“Understood, Your Lordship,” said Baldric. 

“Perfect,” said Jaskier. “Now you must excuse me, gentlemen.” He turned to Baldric. “You’ll get Geralt settled? Show him the ropes?”

“Yes milord. I’ll get him his uniform and assignment. I’m leaving my two best men outside with you.”

“Very good.”

Geralt followed Baldric out. As he neared the door, he felt an impending sense of loss. Every moment in Jaskier’s presence was infused with the hope he would find a window to speak privately and candidly. Leaving his presence gave him the sinking feeling of having lost that chance. But he’d just have to find a way to speak to Jaskier alone. He was in the guard now, it would be easier. Geralt turned to sneak one more glance at him. He caught Jaskier’s expressive eyes trained intensely on him.

They were trained a bit lower than his face.

Geralt cleared his throat and Jaskier pulled his eyes from where they were resting on Geralt’s ass, up to his face. His cheeks flushed when he realized Geralt had caught him. But he recovered smoothly.

“Good luck, my friend,” said Jaskier.

“Thank you,” said Geralt. He paused for just a moment, then remembered. “Milord.”

He scented a rush of lust from Jaskier. Jaskier turned his face away abruptly.

“You coming?” asked Baldric, who was at his elbow again.

Geralt left the room reluctantly. By the time he’d pulled himself away, Baldric was waiting for him outside the door. He nodded towards the west corridor.

“Let’s get you your uniform then,” said Baldric. “That has a rightful place.” He pointed to the pin Geralt had haphazardly stuck on his collar.

Geralt felt slightly abashed. “Thank you,” he forced himself to say. “I hope this doesn’t cause problems with your actual second in command.”

Baldric walked briskly now and with purpose. Geralt hopped to keep up.

“Just show her respect. She’s been in the guard five years earning her position,” he said.

“I’m not interested in taking anyone’s position,” said Geralt.

“Just don’t be an ass and it’ll be fine,” said Baldric. “You’re a friend of His Lordship and he obviously wants you close. That’s all I need to know. Mind if we stop by the kitchens?”

“Of course not,” Geralt said.

The kitchens were a long walk from the meeting room. Geralt kept quiet, because halls were the wrong places to ask meaningful questions. As they walked, Baldric pointed out the different wings, the ornate doors leading to the hall where court was held, and the ballroom where dignitaries were entertained.

“I don’t need to show you the Eastern Gardens,” said Baldric. “You’re already familiar with them.” There was a hint of actual humor in his voice, though he still looked ahead as he walked.

“No, I remember them well,” said Geralt. He tried to keep his voice light.

“I won’t apologize for keeping His Lordship safe,” said Baldric. 

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” said Geralt.

“Good,” said Baldric. “Because it's your job now too.” 

When they arrived at the kitchens, Baldric walked directly into the cavernous bustling space with authority and calm. He beckoned to the head chef, who hustled over the moment he saw them.

“Hello Captain,” he said genially. He was a rotund redhead and he smiled with his whole face.

“Hello Chef. I trust everything is well in the kitchens?”

“Can’t complain. Calm. Nothing to report.”

“Very good.”

“Didya come by for some pie? Peaches on Wednesdays.” He looked from Baldric to Geralt with an eager smile.

Peach pie sounded fantastic.

“No, afraid not,” said Baldric. “I need something.”

“Sure,” said the man. “What can I do to help His Lordship’s guard today?” He clapped his hands together at his waist.

“I need you to give the mage Tissaia a list of everyone who was in the kitchens the day of the assasination attempt. And do it within the hour.”

“I will, Captain. Not a problem.”

“Also, let me know if anyone has quit or is behaving suspiciously.”

“Happily,” said the chef. “No resignations though. Just one new little helper, who is surely as innocent as the day is long.”

He nodded to a back corner of the kitchen. Geralt saw a little black haired, blue eyed girl with freckles, sweeping up some trash. But he’d already scented her when he walked in.

She grinned at him and he winked.

“Thank you,” said Baldric.

“And who’s this, Captain?” The chef nodded amiably at Geralt.

“This is Eric Bellgarde. He’s just joined His Lordship’s guard. I’m showing him around,” said Baldric.

“Welcome,” said the chef. “I’m Anton and I run the kitchens.”

“Thank you,” said Geralt. He shook the man’s hand.

“Have you shown him the Eastern Gardens yet?” asked Anton. He looked at Baldric, then Geralt. “Pride of Lettenhove, they are. You should see the lamps, the etchings. And so many larks.”

Baldric cleared his throat. “Thanks for the recommendation, Chef. We’ll be off though.”

“Wait, you. One more thing,” said Anton. He put his hand on Baldric’s shoulder. Geralt expected the captain of the guard to flinch or take the man’s hand away, but he didn’t. “If you see food being served and you’re worried it hasn’t been tested thoroughly, please do not stuff it in your mouth, young man. Bring it back to me. We’ll analyze it.”

Baldric turned as red as his ringlets.

“I won’t. I learned my lesson.”

“I would hope that you did,” said Anton. “It was a good thing healers were on hand or you might not have made it. And what would I have told your mother?”

Baldric hung his head. “Yes, Uncle.”

“Promise me,” said Anton.

“I promise,” said Baldric.

Anton fussed over Baldric a few more moments, and Geralt stole a few more glances at Ciri. She was running around in her blue uniform and white pinafore doing small tasks. Throwing out trash. Handing implements to dishwashers. But soon Geralt and Baldric were back walking the halls of the castle.

“Guard office is across the way,” said Baldric, pointing ahead.

The hall opened up into a courtyard with a tall open ceiling. The floors were lined in colorful tiles inlaid in circular patterns. In the center was a fountain, and a sculpture of a woman wearing a bard’s hat. She had a real wooden lute cradled in her stone arms.

Baldric swept past it but something about the woman’s face set off alarm bells in Geralt’s mind. He couldn’t pass it by. He stopped in front of it. There was a plaque fastened to the bottom, so he bent over to take a look.

What he read seized his heart.

_Essi Daven. Little Eye. Poet of Our Hearts._

He lowered himself to his knees to read it again. He traced his finger along the name again, and the two dates. Born. Died.

“What the fuck,” he whispered. He read it again.

Baldric appeared next to him.“You comin?”

“Essi? Essi is...” He stared, dumbfounded, as though staring longer would rearrange the words on the plaque.

Baldric crouched next to him.“You alright?”

“She’s dead?” Geralt asked, looking at Baldric. The man’s eyes crinkled into concern.

Geralt looked up again at the statue. The woman’s hair swooped over one eye.

“You knew her,” said Baldric. 

“Yes,” said Geralt. “We had one night. But...she was like a sister to Jas--Julian.” His voice gave out. He steadied himself against the ground. He breathed slowly to center himself.

“She was.”

He looked at the dates again. The ‘died’ date was mere months after Geralt and Jaskier parted ways on the mountain.

“Fuck.”

Baldric placed his hand on Geralt's shoulder.“We’d better get to the office. We can talk about this in private.”

Geralt stood. He followed Baldric in a daze. Essi’s light was so bright. He had to adjust to the thought of a world without her. He hadn’t had much time with her. She had wanted more. But he’d only given her one night. He had just refused to open his heart then. To anyone. Life was so precious. It was gone so easily. Why had he spent so much of his shut away from people who wanted to love him?

And what had Jaskier suffered? Jaskier, who loved her dearly.

They reached a small office and Baldric unlocked it, gesturing Geralt forward.

As soon as they shut the door behind them, Baldric pointed to a chair. It faced a desk. Behind the desk was a shelf that covered the entire wall. It was filled with folded gray garments.

Geralt lowered himself into the chair shakily. Baldric leaned against the desk in front of him.

“I’m sorry you had to find out like that,” he said. He dipped his head to catch Geralt’s gaze. “You alright?”

“It’s not your fault. I’ll be fine,” Geralt said. “But Julian adored her. Fretted over her like a little sister. How did he take it?”

Baldric pursed his lips and inhaled. “Not well. Not well at all.” 

“Fuck,” said Geralt.

“But then,” said Baldric, “after that. He got stronger.”

“What happened to her? How did she...die?”

“Abducted and killed. I think they did it to force his lordship to enter the war. Nilfgaardian forces and collaborators. Though they deny it.”

“Dear gods,” Geralt said. He dropped his head, then leaned forward and balanced his elbows on his knees. He stared at the floor.

“It worked,” said Baldric. “Maybe not the way they wanted it to. Pretty sure they’re regretting it now.”

“I didn’t know,” said Geralt. He rubbed his face with both hands. “I wasn’t there. For her. Or for him.”

“You were on the run. Protecting your child,” said Baldric. “You can’t protect everyone.”

“That’s what he always used to say,” Geralt said quietly.

“Speaking of Ciri. You saw her?” asked Baldric. “In the kitchens?”

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “Is it safe there? The people who tried to kill his lordship have access to the kitchens.”

“She’s as safe there as anywhere else,” said Baldric. “No one knows who she is. But I’ll keep an eye on her.” 

Geralt thought about Essi Daven the rest of the day. Even as Baldric handed him his uniform. Even as he met the rest of the guards. Even as he followed Baldric around the empty court learning formations.

Essi had been a beautiful person. She’d never hurt a solitary soul. She had a quick tongue and sparkling wit, and the sincerest heart. The thought of her being harmed anguished him. And the people who killed her were likely the same people looking for Ciri.

He couldn’t help it. His thoughts went to Ciri.

“That’s it for today,” said Baldric. “Just be ready for court tomorrow. It’s a snake pit and we’ve had one attempt on His Lordship’s life already. Are you up for it?”

“I’ll be ready,” said Geralt.

He’d be better than ready. He’d be eager. He would perish before anyone laid a finger on Jaskier. It was the least he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with the story, y'all. There is so much more to come.
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, so I'll meet you in the comments.


	8. I'm Grateful That Someone Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt takes a bath. I almost don't want to spoil you any more than that. But he also finds a bit of courage and says some important words.

Thinking of Essi and her fate had given Geralt the powerful need to lay eyes on Ciri. To soothe his worried nerves. But they couldn’t be seen together as witcher and child. So, Geralt had come straight back to the room.

Now night was approaching, and Ciri hadn’t yet returned. Geralt stubbornly wrestled back the urge to go stomping through the castle and usher her back. Instead, he resolved to relax as he waited. And a voice inside him always said _take a bath_ when the need to relax was dire.

Geralt found a full sized tub, and filled it with water. There weren’t many soaps or salts out in the servant’s wing of the castle. It wasn’t like when Jaskier used to bathe him. Jaskier had infused a luxury and sensuality to his life he’d never experienced before or since. And even though he was technically in Jaskier’s house, nothing was the same as before. But yet his mind still searched out the bath, as though it were a solution. As though it would bring him closer to his friend.

Geralt found some basic soaps, towels, and a bamboo privacy screen taller than the tub, in case Ciri came back mid-bath. He heated the water, stripped his clothes off, and carefully stepped into the tub. The water sloshed as he lowered himself in, muscles practically vibrating in joy at the heat. Geralt dipped under the water first like a duck, immersing his head and wetting his hair. Then he slid down until his head lay on the edge of the tub.

He closed his eyes and wiggled his toes and fingers. He breathed in the steam and soapy scent and let it sooth him.

Perhaps it was the tilt of his head. Perhaps it was the fact that he was in Jaskier’s castle. But memories rushed to greet him. He replayed the moments when Jaskier’s hands were in his hair. Jaskier’s fingers sliding down to rub his neck, chasing away his tension. Jaskier pouring in oils and salts until the scents from his messy stressful days were purged.

Jaskier had spoiled him, well and truly. He hadn’t been that relaxed since before the mountain.

There came a knock at the door. His heart leapt. Ciri was back. No. She wouldn’t knock. Maybe...Jaskier?

He grunted to himself. Why would Jaskier visit him? He couldn’t. The bath memories were to blame for his misplaced hope.

The door cracked open and he didn’t need to see Sabrina to know it was her. He knew her scent now, and her gait.

“Geralt?” she called in, from the other side of the privacy screen.

“Here,” he answered.

“I found another dye to try,” she said. “This one might work. Are you in the bath?”

“Yes,” said Geralt.

“Is your hair wet? Shall I just try it now? I won’t....look.”

Geralt looked down. The water was soapy and bubbly. You couldn’t see anything. Anyway, Sabrina wasn’t interested the slightest bit in his cock. If anything, it sounded like Baldric had caught her fancy. If Sabrina had any fancy to catch. She seemed like she was all business.

It was fine.

“Sure.”

Sabrina appeared around the privacy screen. She was still wearing her gown from the meeting, and looked as professional as ever.

She kept her eyes politely averted as she passed the bath. Then she knelt behind him.

“I’m just going to condition your hair a bit first and see if it helps,” she said.

“Alright,” he said. “Do your worst.” He meant it as a light hearted joke, but she didn’t respond.

He heard clinking vials and felt a cool liquid dribble onto his scalp. A floral scent flooded his nostrils. Sabrina shifted and her heels squeaked on the tiles. Her fingers began to massage his scalp at his hairline.

Jaskier always started at the nape of his neck and worked up. And he was gentler. He would lean in closer.

Jaskier had known, of course, that Geralt was starved for touch. Jaskier could always read him. When they’d met, Geralt had been like a feral cat. He needed touch, but you’d end up with a claw in your eye if you touched him the wrong way.

So Jaskier had carefully and patiently given it to him. Whether it was caring for his hair, or his wounds, or offering to rub oil on his sore muscles, Jaskier always made sure Geralt wasn’t touch starved to the extreme. He even kept track of brothels that would serve him, and stepped aside quickly when women approached Geralt.

Though in the latter year of their friendship he had stepped aside with far more reluctance.

“What’s that scent?” Geralt asked. Sabrina was working in silence. Geralt should make conversation.

He should try again to thaw the chill gusting from the younger enchantress. Perhaps now that Jaskier had made it clear they were friends, she would let her guard down. Not that everyone was required to be bosom pals with him, but a bit more trust would make his life easier. It certainly had with Baldric.

“Wildflowers, I think,” said Sabrina crisply. “Picked from the gardens here. I just need to rub it over your scalp. It won’t be much longer.”

“It’s fine,” no hurry,” said Geralt.

Sabrina continued to work in silence, massaging the liquid thoroughly.

Then Geralt heard a click. It registered as Sabrina’s heel again, so he barely noticed it. But then he felt Sabrina startle, and heard a rustle that had to be from a second person.

He startled and began to jerk his body up. Sabrina held him in place.

“Stay still,” she said.

“Why don’t you let me take this over, Sabrina?” Jaskier’s voice was undeniable and a shock of pleasure hummed through Geralt’s body.

Geralt started to sit up but then strong fingers were in his hair and Jaskier’s scent was close enough to break through the cloying floral of the dye.

“Yes Milord,” said Sabrina.

“Thank you,” said Jaskier, now knelt behind Geralt, with both hands gently holding his head in place.

She left without saying a word to Geralt. He heard her heels click and the door shut behind her.

Geralt began again to sit up.

“Jaskier--Julian.”

“Just stay put. Let me do this. For old times sake.” said Jaskier. His voice was as soft as Geralt had heard it since he returned.

Geralt lowered his head back down against the tub. Jaskier’s face hovered above him from behind. He heard the clink of Jaskier removing his rings and placing them in his pocket.

“How did you get here? You aren’t supposed to be here.” said Geralt. “I didn’t hear the door--”

“Are you disappointed?” asked Jaskier. Even upside down, his face was familiar and lovely. His fingertips began kneading the nape of his neck and Geralt involuntarily moaned a contented sound.

Jaskier chuckled. “I’ve missed that.”

Geralt recovered and stuttered, “No, of course I’m not disappointed. I’m glad. Very. Glad. I just didn’t hear the door open.”

“Trap door.”

“There’s a trap door?” asked Geralt. “In this room?”

“Yes,” said Jaskier, “under the rug.” His fingers spread wider and rubbed firmly beneath Geralt’s jaw. Geralt’s physical reaction to the familiar slide of fingers was instantaneous. His shoulders lowered like a drawbridge when the chain is released.

“I thought the passage was blocked off, caved in years ago. But tonight, I got an anonymous note.”

Geralt gripped the sides of the tub and moved again to get up, despite the allure of Jaskier’s fingers.

“You got a note?!” He twisted around and enjoyed a direct view of Jaskier. The neck of his tunic was open. His fringe was already partially damp from the steam and stuck to his face. His lips glistened from the steam as well. His eyes were fond, and after days of coldness, it lifted a powerful burden from Geralt.

“Stop that,” said Jaskier. He touched Geralt’s bare shoulders with his hands. Geralt was suddenly aware of exactly how nude he was. Jaskeir guided him back around and touched his head to lay it back against the tub again. “You’ll splash everywhere. But, yes. A note. I got a note saying to use these passageways. That they were cleared. And here we are.”

“Who the hell is sending these notes? Repairing your secret passageways?”

“I don’t know,” said Jaskier. His fingers wiggled Geralt’s head softly, loosening the tension in his neck. “I gave the note to my advisors for analysis. That’s all I can do. The funny thing is, it isn’t even that high on my list of _most urgent mysteries to solve_.”

“I suppose not,” said Geralt. “Uuuuugh,” came the involuntary noise again from his throat.

“That’s it,” said Jaskier, a smile wrapped in his voice. “So yes, the note. When you got one, I thought it was someone hostile. Now? I don’t know. Maybe it is someone who has an interest in you and I growing closer?”

“Could be. Maybe they meant to help me the first time and I just fucked it up.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Who knows. I suppose whoever wants us to be closer, would be someone who doesn’t want you turned in to Nilfgaard. So their presence is feeling less ominous. But I’ll still follow up. They have an unnerving ability to get around my guards.”

He moved his fingers to Geralt’s temples, rubbing in soft circles, with just the right pressure and speed that Geralt’s forehead smoothed, tension released there too. There really was no substitute for someone who knew your body, and could play it like a lute. Jaskier knew how he liked to be touched to relax his body. He was a master. How quickly could he learn Geralt’s body to provoke it? Geralt thought the answer was probably ‘almost instantly’.

He chided himself and redirected his thoughts. The water was hazy. But if he’d still be mortified to have an erection while Jaskier was just trying to wash his hair.

“I’m glad I got here in time to stop you dyeing your hair, though,” said Jaskier.

“Why?” asked Geralt.

“It’s a bad idea. People saw you in the kitchens as you are. If you changed it now, it would draw _more_ attention.”

“You keeping track of me?” asked Geralt. He said it teasingly, but he was glad. And his toes curled at the luxurious attentions of Jaskier’s hands.

“Of course I am,” said Jaskier. “Always.” He had begun to work his fingers up Geralt’s scalp now in wide circles. Geralt’s head was loose and his neck felt soft. But his cock twitched when Jaskier leaned a bit too close and Geralt scented the warmth of his neck.

“How was lunch? With your queen?” asked Geralt abruptly. That would do the trick to convince his body to desist.

“Lovely. Though little progress. It’s a dance.”

Geralt realized he didn’t actually want to know more.

“And the rest of your day?” His voice shook a little with the firm rhythmic movements of Jaskier’s fingers.

“Tedious meetings and dinner with a Temerian diplomat.” Jaskier was close enough that Geralt felt his breath puff past his ear as he spoke.

“And now you’re tending to me,” said Geralt. “Aren’t you tired?”

“This rejuvenates me Geralt. It reminds me of simpler times. When washing your hair and making your bath was my most momentous evening task.” He stroked Geralt's hair now. His skin prickled with a pleasurable buzz.

“And how was your afternoon in my guard?” asked Jaskier. “Did you play nice with Baldric?”

“I was nice,” said Geralt. “I promise. He showed me around, gave me my uniform.”

“Got you ready for court tomorrow? Showed you the positions, formations?”

“He did. I’m ready. I won’t embarrass you.”

“I know you won’t. I’m always proud of you. Even when you’re being a child. You’re still my oldest, dearest friend.”

Geralt chuckled. There was no way he could express how much that relieved him. Jaskier removed his fingers from his head and softly smoothed his hair back.

“Now dunk,” said Jaskier.

Geralt dunked and reemerged, rubbing his hair back to wipe away the water. Jaskier’s hands were on his shoulders almost immediately. There was oil on his palms and he kneaded deeply into the muscles adjoining his neck and shoulders. Geralt slumped forward and groaned happily.

His soul rejoiced, and he realized that even _he_ had underestimated how much he had missed this. But guilt also prickled him. He’d been a good, steadfast friend to Jaskier in return, with the exception of his cruelty at their parting. But he had never nurtured Jaskier in this way. He hadn’t shown him this softness. In his own way he had. But not like this.

Geralt didn’t want to disrupt the softness being shown him at the moment. But now that he knew what happened to Essi, he had to offer the same to Jaskier. He didn’t know if Jaskier had been cared for in his grief. He had to give him the opportunity to talk about it if he so wished. Geralt cleared his throat, and this time, he succeeded in sitting up. He sat up and twisted, sloshing around in the water until he was facing Jaskier.

Jaskier’s hands were lifted, and he was looking at Geralt expectantly.

“Yes? Is something the matter? Have I forgotten how you like it?”

“No.”

Geralt looked at him carefully. He took Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier jumped just a little before he allowed his hands to be cradled again. He still wasn’t used to Geralt being so demonstrative, and that gave Geralt another twinge of guilt.

“I found out about Essi. I’m sorry Jaskier. I’m so sorry.”

“Ah,” said Jaskier. He cast his eyes down. His voice dipped. “You saw her in the courtyard.”

“Yes,” said Geralt. He squeezed Jaskier’s hands.

“Thank you. Thank you for saying it,” said Jaskier.

“I know you loved her.” Geralt tried to catch Jaskier’s eyes but they were still downcast.

“I did,” said Jaskier. Then he shook his head. “No, I _do_. I still love her. I will forever.”

“Of course you will,” said Geralt.

Geralt sat back on his heels in the bath and let his hands slip to the tub edge.

“I’m guessing that’s how you got caught up in all this,” he said. “Fuck, Jaskier.”

“It was the match that ignited it,” said Jaskier. He huffed without humor and mimicked an explosion with his hands. “Boom.”

Geralt gathered his courage, his resolve, and laid a hand on Jaskier’s cheek. Since it was late in the day, there was a little bit of stubble dotting his soft flushed skin. Jaskier’s eyes flicked quickly to his. The intensity of them tore a path straight to his heart.

“It wasn’t your fault, Jaskier. These are the people that’ve been following us. And they almost got us, too. They're powerful. Evil. You couldn’t have done anything.”

Jaskier swallowed. “That was the problem exactly, my friend. I couldn’t do anything. I was powerless. But no more.” He reached his hand up to cover Geralt’s. “And the fates have given me another chance to protect someone I love. And this time it's going to be different.” He looked fierce. “No one is going to take you from me, and no one is going to hurt Ciri.”

“I know,” whispered Geralt. “I know.”

Jaskier inhaled sharply. “Can we not speak of it right now though? Please?” his voice cracked and his hand slipped down. The ferocity dimmed to an exhausted sigh. “I just want to be with you. A little bit. Like it used to be. Let me get the soap. I’ll wash you.”

“Ok,” said Geralt. He hoped Jaskier didn’t notice the shaking in his voice. He didn’t have the same walls up he used to have. The ones that had allowed him to be washed by Jaskier without his body responding heatedly.

Jaskier retrieved the soap from a tray on the floor. He dipped it in the water next to Geralt. Geralt was sitting on his knees facing Jaskier now. He moved his hands to cover his crotch.

“I won’t look,” said Jaskier with a smile. He swished the soap in the water, and rubbed it between his hands. “Come here.”

Geralt leaned forward. Jaskier’s eyes trailed along his chest and Geralt scented a spike of lust. Jaskier yanked back, but this time, Geralt quickly seized his wrist firmly and held it.

“Geralt, I’m sorry. I try, but my body reacts,” he pleaded, discomfited, tugging ineffectually at his arm.

“Jaskier, it’s fine.”

Jaskier’s arm relaxed. But his face still looked sour.

“Great, it's fine.”

“No, not fine,” Geralt corrected himself. “Good. Great. I...I want you to look at me like that. I want you to feel that when you look at me.”

“Geralt what are you saying?”

Geralt surged forward and caught Jaskier’s lips in his. They were damp from the steam, pliant, and so plush. Jaskier froze, and Geralt almost pulled back, thinking he had made a mistake. He loosened his grip on Jaskier’s wrist. But Jaskier recovered quickly. He pressed back into Geralt, urgently.

Geralt let go of Jaskier’s wrist and took his face. He scrambled his fingers along his cheek, then his neck, pressing into him fervently. Jaskier lips fell open, pliant and willing. Geralt responded by nibbling his lips, and pressing his tongue into his mouth. Jaskier slid his hands against Geralt’s neck and struggled to kiss back with as much force.

Geralt was lost in it. Lost in the thing that should have happened years ago. The love that was his, that he never saw fit to take.

Then Jaskier pulled back sharply. His eyes blazed in whirlwinds of emotions. Geralt had always been amazed at how many emotions could be held in one person’s eyes. Jaskier dropped his hands. Geralt didn’t stop cradling his face. But Jaskier pulled his face away and Geralt’s hands fell too.

“Geralt. What the fuck? What is this?” He searched Geralt’s face in confusion.

“It’s. It’s a kiss.”

“You don’t have to do that. Just because I’m helping you. I would defend you with my life because you are my friend.”

Jaskier sounded offended at his own suggestion.

“I know. I know that,” said Geralt. "That's not why. I want to. I want you like this."

“But why? And why now?” Jaskier’s face was drawn together. Perturbed.

Geralt looked back at him in desperation. He hadn’t actually thought that far. He had thought he was making great progress simply by identifying that he loved Jaskier, and was amazed at the courage he’d had to kiss him. The hows and whys had yet to be excavated.

“Because. This is how I feel about you. I made a mistake, Jaskier. I was wrong.”

Jaskier looked back at him, jaw hanging open just a little. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe this. I can’t.”

Just then, the door slammed open.

“Geralt!” came Ciri’s chirping voice.

Jaskier leapt quickly to his feet and brushed off his trousers.

“Back here Ciri. Just bathing,” said Geralt. He tried to keep his voice polite. It wasn’t Ciri’s fault that he’d let Jaskier pine for him for the gods knew how many years, and then had chosen one of the most inconvenient moments to return those feelings.

“Well hurry up I wanna tell you about my day,” she said.

Jaskier noticed a towel and robe hanging on the bamboo screen and he held them out to Geralt. He averted his gaze as Geralt stood and dried himself.

“Alright, coming,” said Geralt. He stepped out, dried, and put on the robe. Then they both came around the privacy screen.

“Milord!” squealed Ciri. She curtseyed.

“Oh none of that in private,” said Jaskier. “Besides you outrank me I’m sure. Heiress to the Cintran throne. I’m but a mere peasant.” He bowed low and with such gallantry that Ciri grinned wildly.

“No. You aren’t a peasant. And I don’t wanna be a queen. I wanna be a witcher.”

Jaskier straightened up and smiled at her. “The first girl witcher. That’s impressive, Milady. You’ll go down in history books. I’m in the presence of a legend. It is truly my honor.”

Ciri giggled with glee, and curtseyed again.

Jaskier really was so good with her.

“Did you eat dinner, Ciri?” asked Geralt.

“Yes. In the kitchens.”

“It’s important that you’re careful in the kitchens, Ciri,” said Geralt. “Pay attention and don’t talk about your life.”

“I know, I know,” she said. He held out his arms and she thunked into them, hugging him back. She looked up at him. “I’m not a dummy. I know.”

He looked down into her wide green eyes. The blue drops had worn off. They were going to have to reapply them every morning. He planted a kiss on top of her head. He caught Jaskier’s gaze out of the corner of his eye, and it was an enigma. Unreadable. “I mean it.” he continued. “Someone with access to the kitchens tried to kill his Lordship.”

Ciri let go of him and turned to Jaskier, eyes even wider.

“You too?” Asked Ciri. “It’s awful when people try to kill you, isn’t it?”

Jaskier grimaced and nodded. “It is. It looks like we’re in that boat together.”

Ciri nodded sagely. “Well you’ll be ok now.”

“Will I?” asked Jaskier.

“Yeah with Geralt guarding you. He kept me safe and there were like twenty people trying to kill me.” She plopped down onto her bed and crossed her legs.

“He was absolutely heroic getting you here safely, milady,” said Jaskier.

“Yes, and I have powers too,” she said. “It’s not just him. I bet I can protect you too.”

“You do?” asked Jaskier.

“Yes I do. Terrible powers." She glowered and waggled her hands in the air miming perhaps the casting of a magic spell. "Amazing powers. I just don’t exactly know how to use them yet. But they’ll come in handy I bet.”

“I bet they will,” said Jaskier. And his voice wasn’t one that an adult takes with a child. He sounded entirely sincere. “Well. I’ll leave the both of you to your evening.”

“You should stay!” said Ciri. “We’ll eat and then Geralt will tell me a story. And he’ll sing to me. It’s lovely.”

“I’m afraid I do have to go,” said Jaskier. “But it was an honor to see you Ciri. I know that we have to pretend you’re my staff, but just know that if you see me out there, inside I am bowing to _you_.”

He smiled warmly, and Ciri blossomed under his gaze. Then he turned to Geralt.

“Goodbye Geralt. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Geralt nodded. Again, he felt grief at the impending loss of Jaskier’s presence. Their conversation still felt cut off. If Jaskier wanted to reject him he could of course. But there was still more to say. But Jaskier was right. He’d be at his side tomorrow. Protecting him from whatever may come. This wasn’t the end.

And it wasn’t the end of this conversation. Before Jaskier left through the trap door, he asked,

“Ciri, what does Geralt sing to you?” He studiously did not look at Geralt.

“Oh, lots of songs. My favorite is Fishmongers Daughter?”

Geralt looked nervously at Jaskier. But he didn’t look like a man who has just been reminded of a life he no longer wanted to think about. He looked happy.

Jaskier laughed. “You sing her that song?”

“She insists,” Geralt shrugged.

“I tried to get him to sing Her Sweet Kiss, but he won’t,” said Ciri.

Now Jaskier’s eyes hazed over a bit with something bittersweet.

“That’s a sad one.”

Ciri swung her legs over the bed. “I can handle it. I’m not little anymore.”

“You know his lordship knows all of these songs?” asked Geralt.

Her eyes lit up and she turned to Jaskier. “Really?”

“I do, my dear.”

“Do you want to sing the songs?” She asked.

“Oh no. It was a long time ago. I’m sure I couldn’t,” said Jaskier.

“Please?” asked Ciri.

“I’m afraid not, Milady.” Jaskier turned to leave, but looked back once more.

“I’m grateful that someone is singing them though.”

He smiled wistfully. “Good night Geralt. Good night Ciri.”

And his Lordship was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got in my feelings writing this chapter. I hope it's a nice to see Geralt take a few important steps, even though we haven't cleared all the hurdles. 
> 
> Let me know how you're feeling. I'll meet you in the comments.
> 
> Also, the chapter name is terrible but my brain is fried so it’s the best I can do 😂
> 
> Also, also the artist that inspired this has added several new works much faster than I have, so our stories diverge. But I do continue to draw inspiration from the themes they have drawn.
> 
> Thanks for reading, my loves!


	9. An Offering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri has a vision.
> 
> Geralt has a moment alone with Jaskier, and tries again to express how he feels.
> 
> \----
> 
> Geralt’s mind emptied. He stared, frozen in place.
> 
> Jaskier’s thick eyelashes flicked up casually, until they reached Geralt. Then his eyes widened. The brilliant blues, grays and even the flecks of green in his irises put the gems on his crown to shame.
> 
> Jaskier’s hands tensed, and his fingers pressed into his legs. A pretty flush crept into his cheeks.
> 
> “Good morning,” Jaskier called out. He still sounded strong and professional. But Geralt detected the slightest quaver.
> 
> In that quaver was everything.
> 
> The hundreds of songs, written for Geralt. The thousands of bandages and baths, caring for him. Countless compliments, building him up, stitching him back together. 
> 
> In that quaver was the way that Jaskier had surged forward last night, returning his kiss.
> 
> Geralt allowed himself to see it all. All of the love that had been offered to him in quiet moments. Everything he had turned aside. Everything he had denied and ignored. It all crystallized in that moment.
> 
> He cleared his throat.
> 
> “May I approach?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING SMUT AHOY. So from the beginning, I marked this story 'explicit' and in the tags I have said there would be a few explicit scenes. The one tag said "I am sensing an oral sex scene with Jaskier on a throne". Well. Here it is. 
> 
> If you do not read explicit sex, you can always stop reading when things heat up, and wait until next update to continue.
> 
> Enjoy!!

In the early hours of the morning, Ciri nudged Geralt.

He was sleeping deeply, but as soon as she climbed up onto the bed next to him he stirred awake. “What is it cub?” he whispered groggily.

“I had a bad dream.” She snuggled next to him, and he flopped his arm over to pull her closer.

“Ow,” she said. “You poked my face.”

Geralt managed to get one eye open, and he pulled her into a hug properly. “S’ok, little one,” he murmured sleepily. “Just a dream.”

“I don’t think it was,” she whispered urgently. “I think it was a vision.”

He twisted his head to the side and managed both eyes open this time. “What happened?” he mumbled.

“It was about His Lordship. Julian.”

  
Geralt was awake now. “What happened?” he asked, more urgently this time.

“Someone attacked him at court.”

“At court? Who?” Geralt wiggled onto his side to see Ciri better in the dark room. Her little face was knit in worry.

“I couldn’t tell. And I can usually tell. But it was just this shadowy shape? It drew from fire. And it had glowing eyes.”

“And what happened?”

“I don’t know. He _screamed_ ,” she said, and her eyes began to well with tears. 

“Shhh, it’s ok, Princess,” said Geralt. “Jaskier is fine. Don’t worry.” He swept her hair from her forehead. 

She nodded. “But it got worse.”

“What happened next?”

“Then h...his throat. It was cut,” she said. “And I woke up.” Her voice broke off on the last word.

“It was right of you to wake me up,” said Geralt. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and drew her close.

  
“I don’t want anything to happen to him,” said Ciri, snuffling against his chest.

“It won’t. I’ll be there. I’ll be sure to stay close.”

“Promise?” She looked up to catch his eyes.

“I promise,” he said.

Ciri fell back asleep but Geralt didn’t. He stared at the ceiling until it was time to get up. 

When the sun rose, he roused her, and they padded around the room getting ready. Ciri put on her blue dress and Geralt laced her pinafore, then tied her hair up. He had paid close attention to how Sabrina had done it. It took a few fumbling tries but she was patient, and he managed it.

Then he put on his gray uniform, and pinned Jaskier’s insignia to his collar properly, where Baldric had shown him. He ran his hands through his hair and said, “You go first Ciri. I’ll wait a few minutes then I’ll follow behind. Be--”

“Safe, I know,” said Ciri. “And you’re going to watch over His Lordship, right? Over Julian?”

“Yes,” said Geralt. “Don’t worry, Princess. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

“Ok,” said Ciri. 

Geralt’s heart squeezed with such love for her. All of Ciri’s people had been slaughtered. She was carrying on out of necessity, and because children are resilient. But there could be no doubt that she was shaken to her core. Traumatized. 

It was no wonder that she had already taken to the kind, handsome man who was keeping them safe. As if Geralt didn’t already have enough reasons to protect Jaskier, this added another. He would do his job well for Jaskier. For himself. For the resistance. And for Ciri.

Before he left, he retrieved his witcher medallion from under his mattress and put it on. His uniform was high cut and would cover it. And with Ciri’s vision on his mind, he decided that he needed every edge he could get.

\----

Geralt met Baldric in the security office where he found him standing over an expansive cherry desk. His actual second in command was already there. They were pouring over maps of security formations. They looked up when Geralt entered, and both nodded a courteous welcome. Baldric motioned for Geralt to join them.

His second in command was a tall, broad woman named Gwendoline. She was a good two inches taller than Geralt. He hadn’t seen her in action, but the way she carried herself suggested that she was formidable. She carried herself erect, like a knight. She was quiet, and not showy about her skill. Those were always the ones to be wary of in a fight. She was handsome as well, with cropped blonde hair and ruddy cheeks. 

Geralt joined them at the desk, and also managed to blurt out some kind of apology to Gwendoline for being in the senior guard meeting at all. He really had no desire for rank. He had just wanted to shut up Peter. A bit deeper than that had bubbled the desire to wear Jaskier’s insignia. But no one else needed to know that.

She thanked him for saying so, but earnestly explained that her loyalty was to Julian Alfred Pankratz, and that this would be the case for the rest of her life. She reasoned that if His Lordship wanted Geralt in the guard, then that was all she needed to know.

“That is how we run this guard,” said Baldric. “No ego. Just loyalty.”

Geralt admired this ethic tremendously. He had been in many a court, and he hadn’t seen one so lacking in pretension. So pure in purpose. It was deeply reassuring that this was the team watching out for Jaskier.

“Now that we have that out of the way,” said Baldric, corners of his mouth betraying warm amusement, “we need to start setting up the security formations for court. Can you go let His Lordship know we’ll be done in an hour?”

Geralt’s heart leapt but he answered evenly, and without betraying his eagerness. “Of course,” he said. “Where is he?” 

The night before, his conversation with Jaskier had been interrupted by Ciri. But to be fair to the child, Geralt hadn’t been doing a particularly bang up job of expressing himself to begin with. Geralt harbored the urgent desire to see Jaskier alone again so they could continue the conversation. 

“He’s in the receiving room,” said Baldric. “They’re measuring him for his crown and regalia for the wedding.” 

Geralt flinched ever so slightly. 

_The wedding._

Thankfully, Baldric and Gwendoline were still pouring over the formations and didn’t notice.

“Yes, sir,” Geralt replied. He turned on his heel and left as swiftly as he could, before any further expression betrayed him.

_The wedding._

Geralt knew the wedding was inevitable. He knew it would help the resistance and save lives. But he didn’t have to like it. And irrational as it was, an irritating hope crouched inside him: the hope that if he just managed to express his feelings to Jaskier in the right way, before the wedding, that it would change something. Anything. He didn’t even know what.

His awkward attempts to do so had been incredibly frustrating. Geralt was a reasonably eloquent man most of the time. He could negotiate rates skillfully with aldermen and argue at length about ethics with mages. He could sit and drink with the kinds of townsfolk who didn’t mind his mutations or his dry sense of humor. And when he was sitting around a fire at Kaer Morhen, his stories about hunts were coveted entertainment.

But his own feelings. That was a different kettle of fish.

Geralt might not ever be able to explain how he felt. Even to himself, what he felt for Jaskier could be likened to a captivating aria sung in a foreign language. Geralt had attended the opera once in Oxenfurt. He had been there visiting Jaskier at school, and they had gone together.

The singer had stood alone on the stage, face tilted heavenward, voice filling every nook and cranny of the ancient opera hall. Her voice was saturated with bittersweet yearning and wrenching heartbreak. Geralt had peeked at Jaskier, and had seen tears rolling freely down his face. 

Geralt had understood why. He rarely cried, but the song had burrowed deep into his chest as well. It felt as though he had a stone in his heart.

They had been so devastated by the song, that they’d been silent for a good hour after the performance ended. Yet, if someone would’ve put a sword to Geralt’s throat and asked him to translate the words, or to say aloud what the song had been about, he would have died without being able to assemble it into letters and syllables.

It was like that.

The feelings he had for Jaskier, that he was beginning to acknowledge, were profound. But what had he said last night?

“It’s _fine,_ Jaskier. It’s _good,_ Jaskier.” 

He snorted to himself in disgust as he walked through the halls towards the receiving room. He resolved that if he had the chance to try again, to fully express how he felt, he would take it. He just had to figure out how.

He pushed open the double doors to the receiving room and stopped in his tracks.

In the center of the room was a newly installed marble platform. On the platform were two new intricately carved, high backed thrones. In the one on the right, sat Jaskier.

He was in full wedding regalia. A gray velvet cloak gathered at his shoulders, accentuating their broadness, and then draped against the chair on either side of his legs. Rich purple trousers skimmed his legs with close, mathematical precision, revealing the firm thighs that bedevilled Geralt. Jaskier sat back languid and at ease, leaning against one armrest with an elbow. His knees were relaxed and open. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers covered in gold rings. Gone was the thin modest circlet set delicately on his brown curls. In its place was a heavy, bejeweled golden crown. 

Four members of his staff were there as well. Two people were polishing the platform. One was shining his shoes. Another was measuring his head just underneath the crown. Geralt didn’t really see them. It was like Jaskier was on that opera house stage, with the light shining only on him.

Geralt’s mind emptied. He stared, frozen in place.

Jaskier’s thick eyelashes flicked up casually, until they reached Geralt. Then his eyes widened. The brilliant blues, grays, and even the flecks of green in his irises put the gems on his crown to shame.

Jaskier’s hands tensed, and his fingers pressed into his legs. A pretty flush crept into his cheeks.

“Good morning,” Jaskier called out. He still sounded strong and professional. But Geralt detected the slightest quaver.

In that quaver was everything.

The hundreds of songs, written for Geralt. The thousands of bandages and baths, caring for him. Countless compliments, building him up, stitching him back together. 

In that quaver was the way that Jaskier had surged forward last night, returning his kiss.

Geralt allowed himself to see it all. All of the love that had been offered to him in quiet moments. Everything he had turned aside. Everything he had denied and ignored. It all crystallized in that moment.

He cleared his throat. “May I approach?”

Jaskier beckoned him forward.

Geralt walked towards the platform, boots thudding on the woven rugs. 

Geralt reached the steps. He felt an urge, and he responded to it, slowly kneeling on the stairs before Jaskier.

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t kneel for a viscount,” Jaskier corrected him. But the surge of lust told Geralt that Jaskier didn’t mind all the same.

“I do,” said Geralt. “I do, if it’s you.”

Jaskier swallowed hard. His attendants were professionals and didn’t so much as blink or glance his way. But his stunned silence left space to be filled. So Geralt continued.

“Baldric sent me here to brief you on the security formation. But now that I am here, I have something else to give you as well.”

Jaskier shifted in his seat. “Do we need privacy for this...something else?”

“That’s up to you,” said Geralt. He looked at Jaskier intently. Shamelessly.

Jaskier nodded briskly to his attendants. The man measuring his head started to remove the crown.

“ _Leave it_ ,” said Jaskier. A smile ghosted over Geralt’s lips. The man nodded and swiftly disappeared, taking the rest of the staff with him.

When Geralt heard the doors close and Jaskier’s full attention was on him, he drew his body forward in a crawl. The spicy scent of lust thickened as Jaskier watched him move. Geralt pulled himself up to a kneel in front of Jaskier. He wiggled in between his knees and gently reached out and covered Jaskier’s hands with his own. 

Geralt knelt there, slotted in between Jaskier’s knees, looking up at him. Then, he lifted one of Jaskier’s hands to his lips. He pressed a kiss to it, then to each knuckle, just above each ring.

The silence was like a tea kettle just set on a flame.

“Geralt. I--” Jaskier’s voice faltered. “I still don’t understand what this is. Also, I’m betrothed now, and I can’t follow you around anymore...” His voice broke off when Geralt leaned his head down and kissed his thigh, over the fabric. 

Jaskier’s heart was thumping now, soft and fast like hummingbird wings. He was holding his breath. Geralt nuzzled his clothed cock.

The lust that poured from Jaskier in response...Geralt had never scented anything like it. Never, not in all of his years. It was so intense that his own body warmed. Lust coiled, curled in his stomach. He opened his mouth to inhale it deeper. To taste it on his tongue. 

It tasted incredible. It wasn’t just lust. It was need. It was yearning. It was love. 

Jaskier still hadn’t breathed.

“Is that a no?” Geralt asked. He nuzzled Jaskier’s cock again, closing his mouth over the fabric.

Jaskier exhaled shakily. “It doesn’t mean no. It doesn’t mean no at all. I just don’t want to...to take something I may not be able to...give back.”

Geralt felt lightheaded from the scent. Almost woozy. He was getting drunk on it.

“You’ve already given me everything, Jaskier. Everything. Just. Let me give a little.”

He looked up again and caught Jaskier’s eyes. His pupils were blown wide. He slipped a finger down Geralt’s cheek and nodded wordlessly.

Geralt unlaced Jaskier’s trousers, listening to Jaskier’s breathing. He was holding his breath again. Geralt tugged his cock free and he felt him exhale.

Geralt had seen glimpses of Jaskier over the years getting in and out of baths. But he had never looked like this. 

Geralt softly ran a thumb up his shaft. It was velvety and thick and already hard. Jaskier whimpered. Geralt looked up at him. He hoped that what he felt shone through his eyes.

“I don’t know how you like it. You’ll have to help me. You’ll have to tell me.”

Jaskier giggled airily, and he sounded just a touch unhinged. He shivered and his thighs twitched. “I will, Geralt.”

Geralt wrapped his hand around the base of Jaskier’s cock. The moment Geralt’s lips touched the head, Jaskier hissed and arched his back in the throne. His legs fell open wider still.

  
Geralt kissed the tip like he would kiss Jaskier’s lips. Tenderly, and slowly, sliding his tongue, catching the ridges and slit. Jaskier was delicious.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed. “ _Fuck._ ”

Geralt looked at him and smiled mischievously as he dragged his tongue from root to tip. Jaskier just stared, his pink lips open, his jaw dropped. Then Geralt slipped his lips over Jaskier’s cock and suckled softly at first, as he squeezed Jaskier’s hands with his, lacing their fingers together.

Jaskier moaned faintly and pulled one hand away to rest it on Geralt’s head. Geralt whimpered at the sensation of Jaskier’s hands on his hair. Jaskier understood and threaded his fingers through his hair, tugging it. Geralt absently rolled his hips and groaned, though his mouth was stuffed full.

He took Jaskier deeper. He dragged his lips down slowly, then pulled off, almost all the way, slurping as he went. He was fully drunk now from the scent of Jaskier. He was lost in the pattering of Jaskier’s heart and the clutch of his fingers in his hair.

But this wasn’t about him. He sucked as he pulled off.

“Is that good, _milord_?” Sometimes it felt like cheating, knowing when Jaskier’s lust surged. But the gasp that tore from Jaskier’s throat was his reward.

The noise Jaskier made next was unintelligible. Geralt waited patiently.

“Ye-yeah. Yes,” Jaskier finally stammered. “S’good.” 

The poet had lost his poetry. Geralt smiled wickedly. He grasped Jaskier’s cock again at the base and slid his length back into his mouth. He wiggled his other hand into Jaskier’s trousers. 

“Just. L—like that, yes,” whispered Jaskier. He closed his hand over Geralt’s and guided him to his balls.

Jaskier’s moans grew louder as Geralt caressed him with one hand and gripped his cock with the other. They filled the quiet hall, along with Geralt’s obscene slurping. Jaskier wiggled on the throne and shoved up in desperate, shallow thrusts. 

Geralt relaxed his throat and slid lower still.

“F-fuck,” said Jaskier. “Can you--” he panted. “Harder?”

Geralt tightened his grip around Jaskier’s shaft and slid his fist up and down beneath his tightened lips. He licked and drooled to make it slicker.

“A--ahh yes. Oh gods. Yes,” breathed Jaskier.

The full realization that he was on his knees with his Jaskier filling his mouth was more thrilling than it had any right to be. The sound of him falling apart was more pleasing than he had even imagined. The taste of the precum dribbling out onto his tongue was wildly arousing. 

Geralt was overcome. His hips snapped ineffectually against nothing as he whined on Jaskier’s cock.

Jaskier had both hands in his hair now, holding it off his face as he bobbed and licked.

“I’m--I’m almost there.”

Geralt tightened his fingers and his lips and bobbed faster, losing control of the saliva that dribbled onto Jaskier’s shaft. He felt Jaskier flex his legs.

“Geralt,” he said. “I’m cumming. If you wanna--”

Geralt knew Jaskier meant for him to pull off if he didn’t want to taste his cum. But Geralt wanted everything. Jaskier keened as he came and it sounded like sobs, echoing off the walls of the near empty room. His thighs trembled around Geralt and his fingers clutched his head as he released into him.

Geralt rolled his tongue and tightened his lips. He tenderly milked Jaskier through his orgasm and swallowed a few times. Then he lapped at Jaskier’s spent cock to clean him off.

Geralt looked up at Jaskier. He was slumped in the throne, eyes glazed, and chest heaving. His crown was a bit askew. He fixed it and then sat forward and took Geralt by the chin. He ran a thumb over his lips. Geralt caught his finger and kissed it.

“The gods help me, Geralt,” said Jaskier. “My treacherous fucking heart. The gods help me.”

Geralt absently reached down and rearranged his cock, which he now realized was hard and straining against his trousers.

“Let me,” said Jaskier.

“It’s alright,” said Geralt.

Jaskier grasped his arms and pulled him up. Geralt shook out his knees, just noticing that the marble had been a bit unforgiving. 

“Come here,” said Jaskier. He pulled Geralt forward and up onto the large throne so that he straddled Jaskier’s thighs. 

Jaskier wiggled his hand down Geralt’s trousers. He wrapped his hand around Geralt’s aching cock.

Geralt hunched over from the intensity of it, his forehead coming to rest on the Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier’s scent, sound, taste, everything had already brought him to the frenzied brink. Just his fingers, like this, electrified. He keened against Jaskier’s shoulder, rolling his body, holding himself up on the throne’s arms. 

As he fucked into Jaskier’s hand, he nuzzled into his neck. The dizzying scent of his lust mixed with his aftershave only made matters worse.

He opened his lips and softly, gingerly latched on to Jaskier’s neck right where his carotid artery pulsed beneath his skin.

He licked in circles, tasting and scenting him. He was drowning and every last nerve was on fire with Jaskier.

His hips stuttered. He grasped the arms of the throne tighter for more leverage and jerkily fucked faster into Jaskier’s fist. He inhaled him as he did.

Jaskier whispered his name the way a holy man chants. “Oh, Geralt. Oh, Geralt. Oh, sweetness. Come for me, my darling.”

_My darling._

That precious word falling from Jaskiers lips. Describing him, like he was a precious thing. It toppled him over the edge.

Geralt squeezed his eyelids shut and tears smeared onto Jaskier’s neck as he came into his fist with a wail. His body seized as the most violent orgasm of his life tore through his body.

Jaskier held his cock gently as he fucked himself through it. Geralt was vaguely aware that he had messed his trousers. He didn’t care. He heaved several heavy breaths and sat back on Jaskier’s legs. 

Jaskier gazed at him so reverently that it hurt. It was like that stone in his chest, just like that aria. Jaskier brought his other hand to Geralt's jaw and pulled him into a gentle kiss that grew desperate. He kissed and licked into Geralt's mouth whimpering words he couldn’t understand. But he wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s neck and kissed him back.

They kissed and kissed, pressing into one another, clutching each other. It could have been five minutes. It could have been more.

  
They didn’t pull apart until Geralt heard clicking heels outside, heading towards them. He recognized the sound and gait by now as Tissaia.

“Someone’s coming.”

“Godsdamnit,” said Jaskier.

Geralt climbed off of the throne and Jaskier’s lap. He stood before him, lacing up his trousers. Jaskier lifted his hips and did the same.  
  
“Also,” said Geralt, “apparently, we’ll be coming to get you in an hour. I guess less than that now.” He grinned.

He straightened his jacket and his pin, and cleared his throat. He was standing professionally before Jaskier when the doors pushed open.

“Good morning, milord. Are you ready for your briefing for court today?” asked Tissaia. Her eyes flicked passively to Geralt. Her tailored, structured maroon dress was perfect, as always. She wore a satin bodice and jewelry today though, as well as dark red lipstick. Geralt could only assume that court was the occasion. 

“Yes, of course,” said Jaskier. He looked at Geralt. “And... thank you, Geralt.” His eyes sparkled.

“Of course, milord,” said Geralt. He bowed slightly at the waist. Then he nodded at Tissaia and took his leave.

Geralt walked the halls back towards his room. He couldn’t go to court covered in his own cum. He had an extra pair of uniform trousers that would work just fine. No one would know the difference.

He would be ready for court. He would protect the man he loved. 

_The man he loved._

He repeated it over and over in his mind. He got used to how it sounded. Maybe soon, he would say it to Jaskier. Maybe Jaskier would say it back.

He smiled to himself and his gait became lighter with little bounces of his heels.

Yes, he was on the run. Yes, Jaskier’s life was under threat. Yes, he had a child to protect.

But for now, just for this moment, anything felt possible. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING, MY LOVES. What did you think? eeee
> 
> Thank you for your patience, by the way. I took a little longer than usual. Elections in my country, and some personal stuff (like watching up on Supernatural so I could watch the finale) slowed me down a bit.
> 
> However, I never forget about, stop working on, or even stop thinking about my WIPs. I work on chapters for weeks, especially ones like this where I wanted to get the emotional tone just right on Geralt's part AND on Jaskier's part, and let some of the narrative tension loose without releasing it all. Yes, it's smut, but more important to the story, it's love. And I want to do it justice. I want both characters to do each other justice. And I want to make it feel real. 
> 
> The set up of a story is easier for me. But as we go it gets trickier. Trying to get developing feelings right and line up the emotional evolution of the characters...that takes a lot more massaging.
> 
> I mull. I stew. I edit a thousand times. I text back and forth with @mandalynn04 to ask her what she thinks about each decision. It's a group project, in some ways.
> 
> So let me know what you thought in the comments and/or what you want to see next! 
> 
> (And yes, I continue to slip in stuff for Game of Thrones fans. Yes, that's Brienne of Tarth, otherwise known as the true love of my life who I want to climb like a tree and then marry and take away from all those men who weren't good enough for her hmmmmph)
> 
> Thank you for letting me take you on this journey! HUGSSSS.


	10. Aftershocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has made things a bit more complicated for himself in his life as a castle guard. He contends with a mess of feelings as he prepares for his first day in court at Jaskier's side.
> 
> He reports Ciri's dream to Baldric and escorts His Lordship and a surprise guest to court.
> 
> \------
> 
> Geralt and Baldric stood outside the carved oaken doors to Jaskier’s private quarters. In their gray uniforms and similar heights, they would resemble one another if it wasn’t for the shock of red hair on one, and white on the other. Geralt glanced at him and mimicked his posture.
> 
> Baldric knocked on the door.
> 
> It swung opened and Jaskier stood before him. Geralt was taken aback yet again by the loveliness of his friend. All of these sumptuous outfits Jaskier was parading around in were going to be the death of him.

Viscount Julian’s security office was crammed with guards. Since it was a small room, all of the extra restless bodies made it stuffy. Swords clanked as the guards shifted and nudged each other. Geralt stood dutifully next to Baldric, watching him out of his peripheral vision.

Geralt had changed and made it back in time to assist Baldric in the briefings. He was still riding high from the events of the throne room, but he’d managed to bring himself back to the important matter at hand.

Baldric stood with his shoulders squared and pulled back. It was a comportment designed to inspire others. It was an immaculate posture engineered to calm nervous guards, and to engender confidence in nobles. It was a type of discipline never asked of witchers.

Witchers disciplined themselves to survive. To win in combat. They weren’t trained in leadership or projecting images. Geralt wasn’t accustomed to a roomful of guards watching him with expectant expressions. It made him more nervous than a swamp full of nekkers.

Thankfully no one was looking directly at him. They were all looking at Baldric. The captain was walking them through their movement for the afternoon. There was electricity in the air. There was tension.

This would be the first court session since the attempt on Jaskier’s life. Every guard was ready to meet trouble wherever they found it.

Geralt’s hands were clasped loosely at his hips. He had mostly tuned out, listening passively to Baldric as he worried about whether his posture communicated professionalism. He had already heard about the formations that morning.

He was shocked from this state when Baldric rumbled out a piece of information that was entirely new.

“When the formations are complete and ready to go, Bellegarde,” Baldric nodded at Geralt, “will assist me in retrieving His Lordship and Her Majesty from his quarters and accompanying them to court.”

Geralt hoped to the merciful gods he’d succeeded at preventing surprise from showing on his face. He had known they would be escorting Jaskier to court. He hadn’t known that the queen would be with him today. He swallowed and considered asking Baldric why she would be there, but he sensed that his role was silent backup.

“The queen will be in court today?” one of the men against the wall asked.

Geralt inwardly thanked the man for his service. Baldric nodded crisply. “Yes. Their engagement is known, but Her Majesty has yet to be formally presented in Lettenhove. His Lordship will be doing that today. It will make the engagement official.”

Geralt hoped the brick in his stomach would stop dragging at him every time he heard the word _engagement_. But adding the word _official_ after it seemed to make the matter worse. He had known that their throne room liaison wasn’t going to change Jaskier’s situation, but some kind of irrational hope he’d harbored stung at the affirmation.

“Will we need to station men behind her as well?” asked Gwendoline, because _she_ was a professional. She stood to the right of Baldric, facing the guards. In the hours since Geralt had seen her, she had also spruced herself up for court. Her guard pin was affixed perfectly to her collar, and her hair was arranged like a regal blonde wave.

“No,” said Baldric. “She brought her own private guard. Bellegarde and I will stand behind His Lordship on the platform,” Baldric bent slightly over the desk to point where they would stand, “while her personal guard will attend to her.”

Only when Baldric’s fingers trailed from Jaskier’s quarters on the map, did the implications of the plan register with Geralt. He and Baldric would escort Jaskier and his queen “from his quarters”. So, Jaskier and the queen were together in his quarters.

Geralt tried to block it out, that green eyed monster of jealousy. He needed to be the bigger man. What he felt was dead last on the list of priorities. When that didn’t work, and he still felt it prickling him, he reminded himself that he had only been away from Jaskier for a few hours, and Geralt felt fairly certain he had left Jaskier satisfied.

Gods, he was ridiculous. _Fucking focus_ , he hissed inwardly.

“Tarth will watch the door,” continued Baldric, nodding at Gwendoline, “and oversee those of you charged with watching the entrance. Any questions?”

There were quiet murmurs, but no questions. One of the officers spoke up. “Understood, captain.”

The looming prospect of court cleared Geralt’s mind of any pining and emotional turmoil. It was almost time. Geralt cleared his throat.

Baldric turned to acknowledge him. “Yes, Bellegarde,” said Baldric.

“May I speak to you in private?”

Baldric nodded at one of the officers against the wall. “Samson, get them in formation.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the room was empty, other than Baldric, Geralt made sure the door was closed tight.

Baldric held his look with one of concern. “What’s going on?”

“This might seem ridiculous,” said Geralt. Baldric sat and gestured to the chair across from him.

“Try me,” he said.

Geralt took the offered chair, and leaned forward. “It’s almost certainly nothing useful. But Ciri had a vision last night.”

“A dream?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Geralt. “I think so. But it could have been a vision.”

“Good, I need to know anything that might be relevant. If Nilfgaard takes her powers seriously then it's best that we do too. What did she dream about?”

“Just that someone would attack His Lordship today at court.”

Baldric nodded slowly. “Well, we know that His Lordship is facing an assasination threat. And we know the most likely place for it to happen is at court. So we’re already on full alert. We have twice as many guards as usual, and we’re searching everyone who comes in.”

“I understand,” said Geralt.

“Did she give any details?” asked Baldric. “Like how he was attacked or by who?”

Geralt shook his head. “No, she couldn’t see the attacker. But she said his throat was slit.”

Baldric pulled in a slow breath and exhaled. He softly tapped his fingers on the desk. “Yes, well. Few people are even allowed in court, because His Lordship doesn’t want people to see him who could connect him to his spy identity.”

‘Spy identity’ still pricked at Geralt like a nasty little needle.

“And the two of us will be on either side of His Lordship,” said Baldric. “No one will be able to come close. So I don’t see what more we can do.” He looked at Geralt. “Do you?”

Geralt knew he wasn’t an expert on castle security. It was a far cry from hunting monsters. But he knew the question attributed trust to him. So he took a moment to consider. “No, I don’t. It’s a good plan.”

“Alright,” said Baldric. “Then we’ll stick to it. Let’s go get His Lordship and his queen.”

\------

Geralt and Baldric stood outside the carved oaken doors to Jaskier’s private quarters. In their gray uniforms and similar heights, they would resemble one another if it wasn’t for the shock of red hair on one, and white on the other. Geralt glanced at him and mimicked his posture.

Baldric knocked on the door.

It swung open and Jaskier stood before him. Geralt was taken aback yet again by the loveliness of his friend. All of these sumptuous outfits Jaskier was parading around in were going to be the death of him.

Jaskier’s wedding outfit and intricate crown were gone. Now he wore a soft purple double breasted coat that emphasized his slender torso. Underneath it was a white shirt with enough buttons undone for Geralt to see the thick chest hair beneath it.

As always, layered necklaces nestled there and disappeared under his shirt. His hair was hot ironed into ringlets, several of which fell into his eyes. His eyes were rimmed with the barest line of kohl and the blue and grey of his eyes sparkled. A thin circlet lay across his forehead.

“Good morning, Baldric. Good morning, Geralt.” Jaskier ran his fingers down his crown to tame the curls and smiled, charming as ever. It was a sincere smile, and one that offered a balm to his constant formality.

Geralt swallowed hard to clear the tightness of his throat, but also to prevent himself from speaking. He used to be free to say anything at all to Jaskier, but he’d kept silent. Now that his feelings were pushing against his chest like a river behind a damn, he couldn’t say a word.

Baldric bowed gallantly. “Good morning, Your Lordship.” Geralt bowed at the waist but he didn’t say anything, because he didn’t trust his voice. He remembered Jaskier’s hand on his head. He remembered his lips stretched around Jaskier’s cock. He realized that what they had done in the throne room might be the first, last, and only time he held Jaskier like that.

He felt like an idiot for only now understanding how likely it was. Today Jaskier was announcing his engagement. This could be the line in the sand.

“Are you ready, Milady?” asked Jaskier, and he looked back into the luxurious suite behind him. The queen appeared at his side.

She was stunning, as usual. Her gown coordinated beautifully with Jaskier’s coat. Her hair was twisted into elaborate shiny braids. Her scent was delicately floral.

Geralt bowed again, this time in her direction, perfectly in sync with Baldric.

“Ah, your friend is on the guard now,” she said, her eyes surveying Geralt carefully.

“I am, your majesty,” he answered.

“You won’t be jumping out of any bushes at us today will you?” she asked teasingly.

Geralt wanted to explain that he hadn’t jumped out of a bush in the Eastern Garden. He had burst through a door. A bush had just _happened_ to have been nearby. But he smiled tightly at her. “No, Your Majesty,” he murmured.

“It was simply a misunderstanding, Sasha, my dear,” said Jaskier, coming to his rescue. “I am fortunate indeed to have Eric in my guard.”

She looked thoughtful, and seemed as though she would speak. Before she could, Jaskier offered her his arm. “Shall we?” he asked.

“Please follow Bellegarde,” said Baldric. “He will be leading you, and I will bring up the rear.”

“We’ll be right behind you, Eric,” said Jaskier. Geralt hoped there was meaning in his name when Jaskier said it. He hoped it was heavy with lust and that Jaskier caressed each syllable. But really, it sounded courteous and that was it. “On to court.”

The brick in Geralt’s stomach had been present since he had shown up in this place. At first it was fear and horror. Then abandonment and yearning. And now jealousy had been crusted around it. A childish, outraged part of him wished that he had never come to this place.

But he knew it wasn’t true. If he hadn’t come here, he’d be dead and Ciri would’ve been captured. He would never have had the opportunity to show Jaskier how he felt. And his jealousy was a mess of his own doing. He had no one to blame but himself.

As he walked in front of the betrothed couple, leading them to court, he knew that there was nowhere else he would rather be. If his options were being with Jaskier and nursing a broken heart, and being without Jaskier at all, this was preferable.

At least now, he could keep Jaskier safe. Now that he knew the kind of danger his friend was in, at least he could be here to make sure he didn’t meet the same fate as Essi.

It was the very least he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello loves! I will once again apologize for how long I took. I do have the next chapter ready though, so in my usual style, you will get another today or tomorrow. (you wait forever then boom boom) 
> 
> Anyway, poor Geralt. He is still struggling. This is what happens when you realize you love someone after twenty years of rejecting them but now it's too late. (OR IS IT) (OF COURSE IT ISN'T TOO LATE) (BUT HOW)
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments. I love hearing your impressions.
> 
> xo  
> Bex


	11. In Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt serves his first day as Jaskier's guard in court. The threat comes from a place he expects the least.
> 
> \-----
> 
> Geralt reached the platform first and stationed himself behind the tall back chair where Jaskier would sit.
> 
> He watched Jaskier approach down the aisle, hand raised to lead his queen, her fingertips in his palm. His Lordship turned to the left in a practiced performance, nodding and greeting each attendee. He turned to the right, repeating the ritual.
> 
> However, Jaskier was unable to help himself and he glanced up at Geralt for a heartbeat. The color of his eyes was brilliant behind his thick eyelashes, but his expression was unreadable.
> 
> Geralt stood straight as a board above him on the platform. His tongue darted out to touch the corner of his mouth where the taste of Jaskier had clung just that morning. There was the barest hint of a flush in Jaskier’s face. But it was only there for a second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really no content warnings except there is a fistfight and mention of blood.

Geralt pushed open the heavy doors that towered over him. It was like those stories where children jump through a portal to a magical land. The opening doors revealed a cavernous, beautifully prepared hall on the other side. The polished floors gleamed such that Geralt could see his own shadow. Multi-colored banners hung in rows to honor the visiting guests.

About thirty pairs of eyes turned to land on him.

Every well dressed attendee was primed to see Julian, their viscount and future king. Perhaps they were disappointed to see Geralt instead. But Geralt still gave them plenty to look at.

Even without his witcher eyes, his two swords, or his long hair, his comportment set him apart. With every movement, he carried a lifetime of combat experience against formidable opponents. It informed how he walked and how he regarded a room. Geralt swept his eyes up and down the assembly, shrewdly assessing it for threats. Jaskier and his queen waited just behind him for his go ahead.

As the eyes of the audience assessed Geralt, his mind cast off the awkwardness he’d felt before in the guard’s room; the feeling of a fish flying through air.

Geralt realized now what this job truly meant. It wasn’t just hiding in plain sight in a role he was underqualified for in both grace and political knowledge. It wasn’t just wearing Jaskier’s pin and feeling as though he belonged to him.

No.

Geralt wore the uniform. He walked first into the room. These dignitaries and nobles were assessing Geralt as a man tasked with protecting their lordship and by extension, their lands.

Little did they know that he had always protected Jaskier. For twenty years he had yanked him away from djinn, pushed him behind when bandits attacked, and sheltered him from vengeful lords. True, he hadn’t protected him from his own emotional harm. But protecting him was still a role he was born to fulfill.

As they scrutinized him, he also realized what it meant to stand by Jaskier publicly.

Jaskier had always wanted to be loved and appreciated openly, but he also knew that Geralt hated the spotlight. Wearing a man’s insignia and being willing to lay down your life for him were no small things. And to do them in front of a kingdom showed Jaskier that he truly loved him.

Geralt took in the room. Tissaia and Sabrina were already seated on opposite ends of the platform. Guards stood stiffly along the wall. The only dignitary he recognized was Peter, and he smiled mildly at Geralt, who scowled back at him. Everything looked in order.

Geralt glanced behind him and briefly locked eyes with Jaskier out in the hall. He nodded, then he moved into the court, walking down the aisle in front of His Lordship and his queen.

The audience audibly gasped as their eyes fell on Jaskier and his resplendent queen. Geralt shoved down his confusing feelings and climbed the stage.

_This is how I will love him._

Geralt reached the platform first and stationed himself behind the tall backed chair where Jaskier would sit.

He watched Jaskier approach, hand raised to lead his queen, her fingertips in his palm. His Lordship turned to the left in a practiced performance, nodding and greeting each attendee. He turned to the right, repeating the ritual.

Jaskier was unable to help himself and he glanced up at Geralt for a heartbeat. His eyes were brilliant behind his thick eyelashes, but his expression was unreadable.

Geralt stood straight as a board above him on the platform. His tongue darted out to touch the corner of his mouth where the taste of Jaskier had clung just that morning. There was the barest hint of a flush in Jaskier’s face. But it was only there for a second. Jaskier cast his eyes down and led his queen first to the stage. He lifted his hand and she glided up, not looking at Geralt, but greeting her own guards with a nod.

Jaskier sat on the chair right in front of Geralt. He was close enough to touch. Jaskier’s life was endangered but he was keeping Geralt close. Closer than anyone else. Geralt was trusted above all. The witcher looked up at the crowd, sure there was a proud glint in his eye.

It was incredibly likely that someone who had tried to kill Jaskier was in that room. It was likely they would attempt it again.

 _Just try it_ , Geralt thought, silently daring them. _Go ahead_. _I will slice you open and drag your corpse out into the field so that your blood can nourish the grain,_ he vowed. _Without a single hesitation or regret_.

“Welcome,” Jaskier’s voice rang out jubilantly. He raised his hands in an expansive imperious gesture. But from him it looked warm. Generous.

The guests were rapt now. The people assembled in court were mostly nobles and advisors. They had lost their ability to feel true wonder long ago. But they knew beauty when they saw it. They knew nascent power when they saw it.

“Today is an auspicious occasion,” Jaskier boomed. “Today I am presenting my future bride in the court of Lettenhove.”

A passionate applause broke out. Lettenhove was overjoyed at the prospect of their power spreading exponentially with one clever marriage match.

Jaskier stood before them and began to introduce his queen. His words were formal and well worn. He used phrases that dignitaries expected to hear in moments like this. He used words like honor and unity. Geralt half listened as he kept his eyes on the crowd, vigilant for threats.

Baldric stood to his right now, having ascended the platform after Jaskier. Only days before, Geralt had wanted to beat him senseless. And now he felt stronger with him there. Geralt was part of a team. A loyal, dedicated team. He hadn’t ever felt that before. Yes, he had his fellow witchers, but they were more like a family than a team. They were alone out on the path, then reunited at home.

Jaskier finished his speech and sat. The queen stood next. She gave a lovely speech, also about cooperation and unity. Her voice was strong and regal. This was no ingenue, but a canny, wise royal. She coaxed a few chuckles from the crowd and they nodded approvingly.

Geralt knew that everyone in Lettenhove believed they were getting the better deal. They obviously respected Jaskier; but the gifts a spy agency granted a kingdom were less measurable, less visible. Sasha had an army. With Nilfgaard tearing up the coast northward, it was like being rescued from the jaws of a hungry shark.

Geralt tried not to begrudge her for being given something she could not value. Something she may not even want. The queen sat, and the chamber applauded raucously.

Before he knew it, Jaskier’s engagement was official, and court moved on to new business.

A short, sharp-nosed man charged with introductions rose and stood before Jaskier. “Your Lordship,” he said. “Please welcome Marcin Nathlen, the special envoy from Nilfgaard.” The man returned to his chair, formal cape rustling behind him.

The Nilfgaardian attaché rose and stood before Jaskier. He was unremarkable and medium in every regard. Geralt watched him closely. He never let it slip from his mind that Ciri and he were being sought by this kingdom.

“Your Lordship,” began the attaché. “It is my honor to return to your illustrious court, and in such glorious and glad circumstances.”

“Welcome to my court,” responded Jaskier. He sat back in his chair and leaned a bit to the side. “What is your business today?”

Geralt had the impression that this was a dance. Both knew what the business was and how they would respond, but rituals must be attended to.

“I am here,” continued the man, “on behalf of the King of Nilfgaard, his eminence, long may he reign.” He paused as though waiting for applause.

Jaskier made the man wait just a beat before responding, “Long may he reign.”

The man nodded. “I bring before you again the matter of Nilfgaard and entering into a mutual nonaggression treaty. The king must insist that Lettenhove enter it if they are to continue depending on his protection.”

“Well, we get right to the matter, do we not?” answered Jaskier, razor sharp amusement in his voice. “And what would I benefit from such an arrangement? I have no army, so I cannot aggress anyone, so to speak. And I need no protection as I have no enemies.”

Everyone knew that the only threat was Nilfgaard itself. That kingdom was the proverbial gang of thugs that demanded coin from shopkeepers to pay for protection from themselves.

“One cannot be too safe or too secure,” said the man, smiling obsequiously. “And you will be in possession of an army soon enough.” He glanced at the queen, but she kept her counsel.

“That army will still be Kaedwen’s army. So you have nothing to fear,” responded Jaskier with a flourish in Sasha’s direction.

“Oh, we do not fear,” said the man, a rebellious look on his face.

“Then perhaps you can explain to me what are my threats?” insisted Jaskier casually. “Certainly not from Nilfgaard, as you have made assurances that you will not interfere in my humble affairs.”

“Certainly not,” said the attache in exaggerated offense.

It was still a wonder hearing Jaskier’s acid tongue wielded against powerful men for political causes. Jaskier had always understood politics, of course, but had spent most of his time soaked in wine and women. And Geralt.

Jaskier and the attaché continued sparring about what a mutual nonaggression pact would mean, the Nilgaardian striking and Jaskier parrying. Jaskier striking, and the Nilfgaardian leaning back on defense.

Geralt wasn’t sure why an empire like Nilfgaard would care about a small kingdom like Lettenhove. Of course everyone knew that Jaskier was the head of the Redanian Secret Service but no one had any evidence that he used it to undermine Nilfgaard. Perhaps it was to bring Jaskier and the intelligence agency under foot simply because they existed.

As Geralt mused and continued to watch each guest carefully, his medallion buzzed on his chest.

Thankfully he managed to suppress his natural reaction. Magic users and magical creatures were quickly tipped off to his presence when he reacted to his medallion.The mere presence of it put him in danger and he knew it. Identifying himself as a witcher in front of the Nilfgaardian attaché, when a reward the size of a queen’s dowry was out on his head, would have been extremely unwise to say the least. He could be executed and war could be waged on Lettenhove for sheltering him.

But it buzzed and buzzed and warmed on his chest underneath his uniform. This was wrong. He grew cold wondering what could be setting it off. Magic wasn’t allowed in this room unless it came from one of Jaskier’s advisors.

He looked discreetly for Tissaia. She sat in a chair on the dais, but on the other side of the queen, almost to the edge. But she wasn’t performing magic. Her hands were still in her lap and her eyes were on the queen. Geralt furtively looked for Sabrina, on the opposite side of the dais. But she watched Jaskier, along with the rest of the audience. Geralt continued casting his eyes around the room as subtly as possible.

He saw a hooded figure in the back. He hadn’t seen him before. Had he missed him?

But before he could focus on the hooded man, there was the sound of a metallic click to his left. He glanced at Baldric and was flooded with horror. Baldric’s eyes were wrong. They were open too wide and a red, fiery mist circled in his pupils. The look was unnatural and struck Geralt with a sick feeling.

Baldric had pulled out a knife and it was slowly inching towards the back of Jaskier’s exposed neck. Ciri had said that the assassin in her dream was fiery and had slit Jaskier’s neck with a knife.

_Fuck. No. No, no, no._

Baldric’s eyes grew smokier as he reached for Jaskier. Light glinted on the blade. Geralt could not hesitate. He launched his body at Baldric, tackling him to the ground. Breath blew out of both of them upon impact like deflated balloons, their swords clattering against the ground.

Geralt heard voices in the room cry out in shock and outrage, but they sounded like they were underwater. Geralt was laser focused on the man pinned beneath him, the man who had become, if not his friend, a respected colleague. Baldric’s green eyes were dazed and the flames in his pupil flickered brighter. Geralt hated the idea that he had attacked Baldric, but he hadn’t survived this long by doubting or hesitating.

There was a sword strapped to Geralt’s waist, and he placed his hand on the hilt. Just moments ago Geralt had vowed to gut anyone who threatened Jaskier. But suddenly it was complicated. This man was trusted by Jaskier. This man was loyal to Jaskier. And it wasn’t him controlling his own movements. Geralt knew enough about magic to know that. He changed tactics.

Geralt scrambled to sit on Baldric’s hips to restrain him, grasping at his arms to pin them back. The man was a bit more slender than Geralt, but sinewy and hard as granite when flexed in motion. Baldric lunged up at him and Geralt was forced to crash his fist down on his face.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Geralt whispered under his breath. “Baldric, are you in there?” he said louder.

Baldric still looked dazed, but he didn’t give up easily. He was shockingly resilient, and Geralt felt him surge forward again, twisting his body and jabbing towards him with the knife. Geralt cracked his face again and again and knocked the knife out of his hand. It skidded across the stage and fell behind it.

In his frenzy he could only see Baldric. So he was caught off guard when several sets of strong hands yanked him up to his feet.

It was the guard.

They picked Geralt up almost off the ground. His toes were barely touching the platform as they yanked him off of the captain of the guard. Geralt desperately tried to get a good look at Baldric as he was pulled away. Baldric’s eyes were no longer fiery; they were empty. His head was slack and it lolled to the side unconscious. There was blood streaking his face and Geralt had drawn it.

Geralt was caught between regret and relief. He had neutralized the threat, though he would have rather beat the shit out of Peter. He wished the threat hadn’t been Baldric.

He tried to stand, but the guards at his side weren’t done with him. He quickly glanced to his side. Gwendoline, Samson, and another guard surrounded him, almost crushing him.

“Wait, no,” he heard himself say. “Listen to me. Someone’s using magic! There’s a hooded figure in the back, go find him!!”

Geralt heard Sabrina shouting. He looked up and saw her beckoning the guards towards a side door. Geralt tried to shake away out of pure instinct but Gwendoline was strong and with two guards at her side, they were able to hold him steady.

Everyone was shouting, except for Jaskier. Geralt would recognize his voice in a hurricane, but he couldn’t hear it. He tried to crane his head to find him but he had to give up and look ahead to keep his balance. He watched the ground move under his feet and before he knew it, a door flew open in front of him and he was shoved unceremoniously into a small room. He fell forward onto his hands, knuckles stained with Baldric’s blood. Geralt quickly scrambled up. He twisted around and lunged for the door but he only saw Gwendoline’s face and then the door slamming in his.

Jaskier was out there with a threat looming, the court was in pandemonium, and the most capable guards were either unconscious or dealing with Geralt. Panic bubbled up in him.

He shoved at the door but it was locked. He pounded and pounded.

“Someone is using magic!!” he cried. “Keep him safe! Keep him safe!” He turned and leaned against the door. He slid down slowly, rubbing his face. “Keep my friend safe.” He said that softer, to himself. “I need him to be safe.” He rubbed his hands together and wiped the blood from his knuckles. “I need him,” he breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with the story my loves. I'm sorry Geralt is still suffering a bit. But we'll get there.
> 
> I'll meet you in the comments; I'd love to hear what you think. (any theories?)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reading through the books right now, so Ciri's voice is taken from the book characterization. But this is Netflix Geralt and Jaskier.
> 
> If you enjoyed, consider  
> [subscribing to me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Descarada/profile) so you don't miss updates!
> 
> Also, if you'd like to find me on socials:
> 
> Twitter: [buffysummers10](https://twitter.com/BuffySummers10)
> 
> Tumblr: [fangirleaconmigo](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/fangirleaconmigo)  
> Feel free to send me an ask/dm to talk about the fic.
> 
> Thanks to my AMAZING GENEROUS KIND PATIENT betas. 
> 
> [LovelyRita1967](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyRita1967/works) who writes sexy, sweet Geraskier (and Eskel/Lambert, and Letho/Eskel, just go look) romcoms and
> 
> [MandaLynn04](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MandaLynn04/pseuds/MandaLynn04/works) who writes sexy sweet Witcher cast rpfs.
> 
> If you are interested in either of those kinds of fics, check them out.


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